He laughed.  “Business—­business,” said he.  “But let’s not talk about it.  The important thing is that I have you.  The rest is—­smoke!” And he blew out a great cloud of it and threw the cigarette through the open window.

“Tell me,” she said; “I’ve been waiting for you to speak, and I can’t wait any longer.”

“I couldn’t—­just now.  It doesn’t at all fit in with my thoughts.”  And he kissed her.

She moved to rise.  “Then I’ll go back to the dressing table.  Perhaps you’ll be able to tell me with the width of the room between us.”

He drew her head against his again.  “Very well—­if I must, I will.  But you know all about it.  For some mysterious reason, somebody—­you say it’s Whitney, and probably it is—­won’t let me buy grain or anything else as cheaply as others buy it.  And for the same mysterious reason, somebody, probably Whitney again, won’t let me get to market without paying a heavier toll than our competitors pay.  And now for some mysterious reason somebody, probably Whitney again, has sent labor organizers from Chicago among the men and has induced them to make impossible demands and to walk out without warning.”

“And you think there’s nothing to do but walk out, too,” said Madelene.

“Or wait until I’m put out.”

His tone made those words mean that his desperate situation had roused his combativeness, that he would not give up.  Her blood beat faster and her eyes shone.  “You’ll win,” she said, with the quiet confidence which strengthens when it comes from a person whose judgment one has tested and found good.  And he believed in her as absolutely as she believed in him.

“I’ve been tempted to resign,” he went on.  “If I don’t everybody’ll say I’m a failure when the crash comes.  But—­Madelene, there’s something in me that simply won’t let me quit.”

“There is,” replied she; “it’s your father.”

“Anyhow, you are the only public opinion for me.”

“You’ll win,” repeated Madelene.  “I’ve been thinking over that whole business.  If I were you, Arthur”—­she was sitting up so that she could look at him and make her words more impressive—­“I’d dismiss strike and freight rates and the mill, and I’d put my whole mind on Whitney.  There’s a weak spot somewhere in his armor.  There always is in a scoundrel’s.”

Arthur reflected.  Presently he drew her head down against his; it seemed to her that she could feel his brain at work, and soon she knew from the change in the clasp of his arms about her that that keen, quick mind of his was serving him well.  “What a joy it is to a woman,” she thought, “to know that she can trust the man she loves—­trust him absolutely, always, and in every way.”  And she fell asleep after awhile, lulled by the rhythmic beat of his pulse, so steady, so strong, giving her such a restful sense of security.  She did not awaken until he was gently laying her in the bed.