"You think any other sort of paper is any better?" he asked her scornfully.
"I dare say not. But that doesn't matter to me! it is we who talk of justice, of respect, and sympathy from man to man, and then we go and blacken the men who don't agree with us—whole classes, that is to say, of our fellow-countrymen, not in the old honest slashing style, Tartuffes that we are!—but with all the delicate methods of a new art of slander, pursued almost for its own sake. We know so much better—always—than our opponents, we hardly condescend even to be angry. One is only 'sorry'—'obliged to punish'—like the priggish governess of one's childhood!"
In spite of himself, Wharton flushed.
"My best thanks!" he said. "Anything more? I prefer to take my drubbing all at once."
She looked at him steadily.
"Why did you write, or allow that article on the West Brookshire landlords two days ago?"
Wharton started.
"Well! wasn't it true?"
"No!" she said with a curling lip; "and I think you know it wasn't true."
"What! as to the Raeburns? Upon my word, I should have imagined," he said slowly, "that it represented your views at one time with tolerable accuracy."