Twilight Sleep by Edith Wharton

the
idea of the concave tiling fitted to every cove and angle, so that
there were no corners anywhere to catch the dust. People's lives
ought to be like that: with no corners in them. She wanted to de–
microbe life.
    But, in the case of his own office, Manford had resisted; and now,
he understood, the fad had gone to the scrap–heap—with how many
others!
    "Not too near the fire." Pauline pushed her armchair back and
glanced up to see if the ceiling ventilators were working. "You DO
renew the air at regular intervals? I'm sure everything depends on
that; that and thought–direction. What the Mahatma calls mental
deep–breathing." She smiled persuasively. "You look tired,
Dexter … tired and drawn."
    "Oh, rot!—A cigarette?"
    She shook her small resolute head. "You forget that he's cured me
of that too—the Mahatma. Dexter," she exclaimed suddenly, "I'm
sure it's this silly business of the Grant Lindons' that's worrying
you. I want to talk to you about it—to clear it up with you.
It's out of the question that you should be mixed up in it."
    Manford had gone back to his desk–chair. Habit made him feel more
at home there, in fuller possession of himself; Pauline, in the
seat facing him, the light full on her, seemed no more than a
client to be advised, or an opponent to be talked over. He knew
she felt the difference too. So far he had managed to preserve his
professional privacy and his professional authority. What he did
"at the office" was clouded over, for his family, by the vague word
"business," which meant that a man didn't want to be bothered.
Pauline had never really distinguished between practising the law
and manufacturing motors; nor had Manford encouraged her to. But
today he suspected that she meant her interference to go to the
extreme limit which her well–known "tact" would permit.
    "You must not be mixed up in this investigation. Why not hand it
over to somebody else? Alfred Cosby, or that new Jew who's so
clever? The Lindons would accept any one you recommended; unless,
of course," she continued, "you could persuade them to drop it,
which would be so much better. I'm sure you could, Dexter; you
always know what to say—and your opinion carries such weight.
Besides, what is it they complain of? Some nonsense of Bee's, I've
no doubt—she took a rest–cure at the School. If they'd brought
the girl up properly there'd have been no trouble. Look at Nona!"
    "Oh—Nona!" Manford gave a laugh of pride. Nona was the one warm
rich spot in his life: the corner on which the sun always shone.
Fancy comparing that degenerate fool of a Bee Lindon to his Nona,
and imagining that "bringing–up" made the difference! Still, he
had to admit that Pauline—always admirable—had been especially so
as a mother. Yet she too was bitten with this theosophical virus!
    He lounged back, hands in pockets, one leg swinging, instinctively
seeking an easier attitude as his moral ease diminished.
    "My dear, it's always been understood, hasn't it, that what goes on
in this office is between me and my clients, and not—"
    "Oh, nonsense, Dexter!" She seldom took that tone: he saw that she
was losing her self–control. "Look here: I make it a rule never to
interfere; you've just said so. Well—if I interfere now, it's
because I've a right to—because it's a duty! The Lindons are my
son's cousins: Fanny Lindon was a Wyant. Isn't that reason
enough?"
    "It was one of the Lindons' reasons. They appealed to me on that
very ground."
    Pauline gave an irritated laugh. "How like Fanny! Always pushing
in and claiming things. I wonder such an argument took you in. Do
consider, Dexter! I won't for a minute admit that there CAN be
anything wrong about the Mahatma; but supposing there were…"
She drew herself up, her lips tightening. "I hope I know how to
respect professional secrecy, and I don't ask you to repeat their
nasty insinuations; in fact, as you know, I always take particular
pains to avoid hearing anything painful or offensive.