He had recently seen the article, and told her so with a lover-like tenderness that she found balsamic, if not precisely curative.
"It is fiendish," he at length said, "and if I thought any man had done it I would thrash him into confessing so. But I am nearly sure that a woman did it."
"Miss Cragge?"
"Yes."
"You can't thrash her, Ralph. But you can punish her."
"How?"
"Through your own journal—the 'Asteroid.' You can show the world just what a virago she is."
"No," he replied, after a reflective pause, "that can't be."
"Can't be!" exclaimed Pauline, almost hysterically reproachful. "The 'Asteroid' can call the 'Herald,' the 'Times' and the 'Tribune' every possible bad name; it can fly at the throats of politicians whom it doesn't indorse; it can seethe and hiss like a witch's caldron in editorials about some recent regretted measure at Albany! But when I ask it to defend me against slanderous ridicule it refuses—it"—
"Ah," cried Kindelon, interrupting her, "it refuses because it is powerless to defend you."