“Louis, is there going to be a general strike?”
“There may be some bad times coming, honey.” He bent his head and kissed her hands, lying motionless in her lap. “I wish you would marry me soon. I want you. I want to keep you safe.”
She drew her hands away.
“Safe from what, Louis?”
He sat back and looked up into her face.
“You must remember, dear, that for all your theories, which are very sweet, this is a man's world, and men have rather brutal methods of settling their differences.”
“And you advocate brutality?”
“Well, the war was brutal, wasn't it? And you were in a white heat supporting it, weren't you? How about another war,”—he chose his words carefully—“just as reasonable and just? You've heard Doyle. You know what I mean.”
“Not now!”
He was amazed at her horror, a horror that made her recoil from him and push his hands away when he tried to touch her. He got up angrily and stood looking down at her, his hands in his pockets.