“Poor old Clay,” she said, with the caressing tone she used when she meant to make no concession. “I do spend money, don't I? But I do make you comfortable, you know. And what is what I spend, compared with what you are making?”
“It's just that. I don't think I can consistently go on making a profit on this war, now that we are in it.”
He explained then what he meant, and watched her face set into the hard lines he knew so well. But she listened to the end and when he had finished she said nothing.
“Well?” he said.
“I don't think you have the remotest idea of doing it. You like to play at the heroic. You can see yourself doing it, and every one pointing to you as the man who threw away a fortune. But you are humbugging yourself. You'll never do it. I give you credit for too much sense.”
He went rather white. She knew the weakness in his armor, his hatred of anything theatrical, and with unfailing accuracy she always pierced it.
“Suppose I tell you I have already offered the plant to the government, at a nominal profit.”
Suddenly she got up, and every vestige of softness was gone.
“I don't think you would be such a fool.”
“I have done it.”