"This is strange language, very strange language," said Trafford in an injured tone, and not daring to pretend or to feel insulted. "I am surprised, Mr. Armstrong, that you should use it in your own house."
"I didn't ask you here. You thrust yourself in," Armstrong reminded him, but his manner was less savage.
"True, I did come of my own accord. And I still venture to hope that you will see the advantages of a peaceful solution."
"What do you propose?—in as few words as possible," said Armstrong, still believing Trafford was trying to trifle with him, for some hidden purpose.
"To call off our attack," Trafford answered, "provided you will agree to call off yours. To give you a liberal representation in our board of directors, including a member of the executive committee."
Armstrong was astounded. He could not believe that Trafford's humble, eager manner was simulated. Yet, these terms, this humiliating surrender of assured victory—it was incredible. "You will have to explain just how you happened to come here," said he, "or I shall be unable to believe you."
The pink spots which had faded from Trafford's cheeks reappeared. "It was my wife," he replied. "She heard there was to be a scandal. She has a horror of notoriety—you know how refined and sensitive she is. She would not let me rest until I had promised to do what I could to bring about peace."
Armstrong was secretly scorning his own stupidity. He had spent days, weeks on just this problem of breaking up the combination against him, of separating Trafford or Langdon from Atwater; and the simple, easy, obvious way to do it had never occurred to him, who dealt only with the men and disregarded the women as negligible factors in affairs. To Trafford he said, "You've not seen Atwater?"
"No, but I shall go to him as soon as I have some assurance from you."
Atwater—there was the rub. Armstrong felt that the time to hope had not yet come. Still he would not discourage Trafford. He simply said, "I can't give any assurance until I consult Morris."