“It’s a damned mean way to treat a little woman the way you’ve been treated.”
Maclin stepped nearer and his neck wrinkled. Mary-Clare made no reply to this. Maclin was conscious of the back of his neck––it irritated him.
“Left you strapped?” he asked.
“What is that?” Mary-Clare was interested.
“Short of money.”
“Oh! no. My wishes are very simple––there’s money enough for them.”
“See here, Mrs. Rivers, let’s get down to business. Of course you know I want the Point. I’ll tell you why. The mines are all right as mines, but I have some inventions over there ripe for getting into final shape. Now, I haven’t told a soul about this before––not even Larry––but I always hold that a woman can keep her tongue still. I’m not one of the men who think different. I want to put up a factory on the Point; some model cottages and––and make King’s Forest. Now what would you take for the Point, and don’t be too modest. I don’t grind the faces of women.”
Maclin smiled. The fat on his face broke into lines––that was the best a smile could do for him. Mary-Clare looked at him, fascinated.
“Speak up, Mrs. Rivers!” This came like a poke in the ribs––Mary-Clare recoiled as from a physical touch.
“I do not own the Point any longer,” she said.