She looked at his bent head, the dark hair growing somewhat thin on top, almost tenderly.
"If I could feel that you were truly on the right side, that you considered your work as social service, that you tried to run your cars to carry people—not to kill them!—If you could change your ground here I think—almost—" she stopped, smiling up at him, her fan in her lap, her firm delicate white hands eagerly clasped; then went on,
"Don't you care at all for the lives lost every day in this great city—under your cars?"
"It cannot be helped, my dear. Our men are as careful as men can be.
But these swarming children will play in the streets—"
"Where else can they play!" she interjected.
"And they get right in front of the cars. We are very sorry; we pay out thousands of dollars in damages: but it cannot be helped!"
She leaned back in her chair and her face grew cold.
"You speak as if you never heard of such things as fenders," she said.
"We have fenders!—almost every car—"
"Fenders! Do you call that piece of rat-trap a fender! Henry Cortlandt! We were in Liverpool when this subject first came up between us! They have fenders there that fend and no murder list!"