She did not drink her wine, but he drained his glass of whiskey at a gulp. Then he got up and went over and turned the key in the lock of the door leading into the hall.
"Steve," she said, "unlock that door."
"I don't want to be interrupted," he explained. "This is a private interview."
"Unlock that door!"
He looked into her eyes to see how determined she might be, and it was evident that he saw. The corners of his mouth twitched in a curious smile, but he unlocked the door, and came back and sat down again at the table opposite her.
"Now," she asked, "what is it that you want to say to me?"
"I want to know why you treat me like a dog."
"Why should I treat you like a man?"
"Because I've done a man's work for you. I brought on this strike because you wanted it brought on. When you came and begged me to have it called off I moved heaven and earth to carry out your will, but it couldn't be done. It was too late. I told you it was too late. But I did my best. And what happened? A riot. A bloody, dirty riot. I blasted my own career. These workingmen are through with me. They are cursing me to-night for a coward and a traitor. They can go to hell cursing for all I care. But as for you, I want pay for what I've done for you. Do you hear? I want my pay!"
"What kind of pay?"
"I want you."
"You can't have me."
She straightened up in her chair and looked him resolutely in the eyes. She saw his lips working but no sound came from them. It was a full minute before he regained the use of his voice. Then he asked, calmly enough:
"Why can't I have you?"
