WHITE (interrupting). And what kind of an American has he been in times of peace? He's wrung forty per cent profit out of his factory and fought every effort of the workers to organize. Ah, these smug hypocrites!
HILDA (reading). "His violent opposition to America going in has been disgrace enough—"
WHITE. But his war profits were all right. Oh, yes.
HILDA. Let me finish, dear, since you want it. (Reading) "—been disgrace enough. But now that we're in, I'm writing in the faint hope, if you are not too much under his influence, that you will persuade him to keep his mouth shut. This country will tolerate no difference of opinion now. You radicals had better get on board the band wagon. It's prison or acceptance." (She stops reading.) He's right, dear. There will be nothing more intolerant than a so-called democracy at war.
WHITE. By God! It's superb! Silence for twenty years and now he writes his poor misguided sister for fear she will be further disgraced by her radical husband.
HILDA. We mustn't descend to his bitterness.
WHITE. No: I suppose I should resuscitate the forgotten doctrine of forgiving my enemies.
HILDA. He's not your enemy; he merely looks at it all differently.
WHITE. I was thinking of his calm contempt for me these twenty years—ever since you married me—"out of your class," as he called it.
HILDA. Oh, hush, Will. I've been so happy with you I can bear him no ill will. Besides, doesn't his attitude seem natural? You mustn't forget that no man in this country has fought his class more than you. That hurts—especially coming from an acquired relative.