bar, since it was likely to abash those who were too intelligent to be propitiated by it.
“Certainly it is involved in hers,” Amherst agreed; “but how far that defines it is just what I have waited till now to find out.”
Bessy at this point recalled her presence by a restless turn of her graceful person, and her father, with an affectionate glance at her, interposed amicably: “But surely—according to old-fashioned ideas—it implies identity of interests?”
“Yes; but whose interests?” Amherst asked.
“Why—your wife’s, man! She owns the mills.”
Amherst hesitated. “I would rather talk of my wife’s interest in the mills than of her interests there; but we’ll keep to the plural if you prefer it. Personally, I believe the terms should be interchangeable in the conduct of such a business.”
“Ah—I’m glad to hear that,” said Mr. Tredegar quickly, “since it’s precisely the view we all take.”
Amherst’s colour rose. “Definitions are ambiguous,” he said. “Before you adopt mine, perhaps I had better develop it a little farther. What I mean is, that Bessy’s interests in Westmore should be regulated by her interest in it—in its welfare as a social body, aside from its success as a commercial enterprise. If we agree on this definition, we are at one as to the other: namely that my relation to the matter is defined by hers.”
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