He nodded and his face assumed a serious air. "I would like to talk over the work." "The Commission?" "Yes." "Oh, I think it's going to be a wonderful success, George?" "And you can help me." He squeezed her hand. This was the note he had been searching for in his mind. He hesitated a moment, nevertheless, feeling an irritating incongruity in what he desired to say. But the headlines glaring at him strengthened him. He was Basine the Moral Champion. The city was throbbing with his name. A hope centered about his name. "The work is going to be hard," he began. "I intend to go to the bottom of the thing. The Commission after its hearings will be able to recommend legislation that will ... that will...." "Yes, I know George." "Wipe out, or at least go a long way toward wiping out...." His mind seemed to balk at the sentence. The word "immorality" withheld itself from his lips. "I'll be glad to help where I can, as you know, dear," she whispered. "I've subpoenaed all the department store heads to bring their books into court, I mean to the hearing, and reveal exactly what the wage scale for shop girls is. I'm convinced it's impossible for a girl to keep decent on $6 and $7 a week." He thought of the fact that Ruth was receiving $30 a week and grew confused. "You can help me a lot, dear," he added hurriedly. Ruth stood up. This standing up had become a habit between them. When they were sitting holding hands, if she stood up, he would draw her to him and she would lower herself into his lap. They had developed a series of similar ruses to which they both adapted themselves like well rehearsed actors and which had for their object the bringing them into positions convenient for kisses and embraces. As she sat down in his lap the unhappy thought crossed Basine's mind that he was chairman of a commission sworn to wipe out just such incidents as this from the city's life. He winced and her arm around his neck felt uncomfortable. But he remembered that both doors were locked and the image of himself as a crusader partially vanished. They kissed and his hand slipped down to her side and toyed with the hem of her skirt. "Do you love me, George? Tell me." "Yes. Why do you ask that?" "Oh because. Sometimes I think you're so busy that you haven't time to love." He was pleased by this. Flattered, he answered: "I have time for nothing else. Everything else is sort of part of it. My work, the commission--it's all you, dearest." His hand was on her, caressingly. He endeavored to remove the significance of the gesture by patting her knee as one might pat the head of a little child, and whispering with an involved frankness: "You're so nice, darling." They had sat like this before, sometimes for an hour, whispering to each other. Their whispering would go on for a time, even their kisses. This time, however, she murmured unexpectedly: "Don't, George." He was surprised. "Why not?" "Because, we mustn't." "But why?"