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"No, if we handle this thing right, we'll have the public on our side. They're getting sick of the unions now." Ditmar went to the desk for a cigar, bit it off, and lighted it. "The public!" he exclaimed contemptuously. "A whole lot of good they'll do us."
"Lise?" Janet repeated. "Hasn't she been home?" "Your father and I have been alone all day long. Not that it is so uncommon for Lise to be gone. I wish it wasn't! But you! When you didn't come home for supper I was considerably worried." Janet sat down between her mother and father and began to draw off her gloves. "I'm going to marry Mr. Ditmar," she announced.
Boston! Why not Russia? Janet was speechless for sheer lack of words to describe what she felt.... At length he brought the car to a halt opposite an imposing doorway in front of which a glass roof extended over the pavement, and Janet demanded where they were. "Well, we've got to eat, haven't we?" Ditmar replied. She noticed that he was shivering. "Are you cold?" she inquired with concern.
I've been with them, I marched up here with them from the Clarendon when they battered in the gates and smashed your windows and I wanted to smash your windows, too, to blow up your mill." "What are you saying? You came here with the strikers? you were with that mob?" asked Ditmar, astoundedly. "Yes, I was in that mob. I belong there, with them, I tell you I don't belong here, with you.
"I guess you'll find," Ditmar had interrupted peremptorily, "I guess you'll find, if you look up the savings banks statistics, these people have got millions tucked away. And they send a lot of it to the other side, they go back themselves, and though they live like cattle, they manage to buy land. Ask the real estate men.
She could understand and to a certain extent maliciously enjoy Ditmar's growing exasperation with him; he had a formal, precise manner of talking, as though he spent most of his time presenting cases in committees: and in warding off Ditmar's objections he was forever indulging in such maddening phrases as, "Before we come to that, let me say a word just here." Ditmar hated words.
"Aren't you going to take it?" he said. "It's yours." "And what do you suppose my family would say if I told them Mr. Ditmar had given it to me?" "Come on, I'll drive you home, I'll tell them I gave it to you, that we're going to be married," he announced recklessly. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed in consternation. "You couldn't. You said so yourself that you didn't want, any one to know, now.
He had thought of Janet when she had entered his mind at all as unobtrusive, demure; now he recognized this demureness as repression. Her qualities needed illumination, and he, Claude Ditmar, had seen them struck with fire. He wondered whether any other man had been as fortunate.
Ditmar was one of those men who, as the expression goes, "take" well, a valuable asset in semi-public careers; and as he stood in the sunlight on the steps of the building where they had "snap-shotted" him he appeared even more massive, forceful, and preponderant than she had known him.
I know one thing, I'll never get another friend like him." With a gesture that gave her a new insight into Ditmar, reverently he took the picture from her hand and placed it back in the drawer.
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