"He thinks he is. But, my dear, I found the men out long, long ago, in their pretense of hard work. They talk a great deal downtown, and smoke and eat a great deal. But they work very little—even those that have the reputation of working the hardest. Business—with the upper class men—is a good deal like fishing, I guess. They spread their nets or drop their hooks and wait for fish. My husband is killing himself, eating directors' lunches. You know, they provide a lunch for the directors, for those that meet every day—and give them a ten- or twenty-dollar gold piece for eating it. It's a huge dinner—a banquet, and all that have any digestion left stuff themselves. No wonder the women hold together so much better than the men. If the men had to wear our clothes, what sights they would be!"
Neva returned to the business about which she had come. "They're having an investigating committee down there now, aren't they?"
"Not to investigate their diet," said Mrs. Trafford. "There'd be some sense in that. I suppose it's another of those schemes of the people who haven't anything, to throw discredit on the men who do the work of the world. Universal suffrage is a great mistake. Only the propertied class ought to be allowed to vote, don't you think so? Mr. Trafford says it's getting positively dreadful, the corruption good men have to resort to, with the legislatures and with buying elections, all because everybody can vote."
"I've not given the subject much thought," said Neva. "I heard— Some one was talking about the investigating committee—and said it was the beginning of another war downtown."
Mrs. Trafford looked amused. "I didn't dream you had any interest in that sort of thing. I don't see how you can be interested. I never let my husband talk business to me."
"Usually I'm not interested," said Neva, now fairly embarked and at ease. "But this particular thing was—different. It seems, there are two factions fighting for control of some insurance companies, and each is getting ready to accuse the other of the most dreadful things. Mr. Atwater's faction is going to expose Mr. Fosdick's, and Mr. Fosdick's is going to expose Mr. Atwater's."
Mrs. Trafford's expression had changed. "Neva, you've got a reason for telling me this," said she.
"Yes," frankly admitted Neva.
"Why?"
"Because I thought you—Mr. Trafford—ought to be warned of what's coming."