From the table at his side, the man picked up three pamphlets. One was ent.i.tled The Model Statute, the second was Local Problems, and the third was Reform and Regeneration. To each of the three, Mr. Mix's name was signed. He took them up, and scrutinized them closely.

"Why, what's so remarkable about these?"

"Well, that one on Local Problems isn't so bad, but you know, Mix, when you come out in print and tell us that sooner or later you're going to stop the manufacture and sale of playing-cards, and--"

"What?"

"And stop all public dancing, and--"

Mr. Mix looked moonstruck. "Who ever said _that_?"

"And hand us out sumptuary laws--regulate the length of women's skirts and--"

Mr. Mix caught his breath sharply. "Where's _that_? Where is it? Show it to me! Show it to me!"

Obligingly, the member showed him; and as Mr. Mix stared at the pages, one by one, the veins in his cheeks grew purple. Mirabelle had edited his ma.n.u.script,--thank Heaven she hadn't tampered with the Mix amendment of the blue-law ordinance, which Mr. Mix had so carefully phrased to checkmate Henry, without at the same time seeming to do more than provide conservative Sunday regulation,--but in the other articles Mirabelle had shovelled in a wealth of her own precious thoughts, clad in her own bleak style, and as soon as he had read two consecutive paragraphs, Mr. Mix knew that the worst wasn't yet to come--it had arrived.

The other man was amusedly calm. "Well, you're not going to deny you wrote it, are you? Too bad, in a way, though. Oh, I don't blame you for getting it off your chest, if you really mean it--a man might as well come out in the open--but I'm afraid too many people'll think it just funny."

Mr. Mix produced a smile which was a sickly attempt to register nonchalant poise. "What do you hear about it?"

"Oh, what I said. Say Mix, do you honestly mean all that blood-and-thunder?"

Mr. Mix smiled again, and hoped that his expression was taken to be non-committal. To save his life, he couldn't have helped looking towards the corner where Henry and Judge Barklay sat, and his fury and chagrin were multiplied when he saw that they were still affected by humour.

He went out, with vast dignity--even the doorman had a twinkle in his eye--and made for Masonic Hall. Mirabelle was there, in the committee room, and at sight of him, she had a temporary fit of maidenly diffidence. He wanted to slap her; but he didn't even dare to use a tone of voice which was more than disapproving.

"Those pamphlets--" he began, censoriously.

"Oh, yes, Theodore, I took the liberty of making a few slight changes."

"Slight changes! Sleight of _hand_ changes!"

Mirabelle drew herself up. "Do you mean to say you criticise what I did? _I_ couldn't see the sense of being milk-and-watery, even if _you_ could. All I put in was what you've said to me a hundred times over. We've wasted too much time already. I thought we'd better show our true colours."

Mr. Mix stood and gaped at her. Underground politician that he was, he knew that Mirabelle had utterly destroyed the half of his ambition.

She had made him a laughing-stock, a buffoon, a political joke. To think that his name was connected with a crusade against short-skirts and dancing--Ugh! Not even the average run of church-goers would swallow it. "Mayor!" he thought bitterly. "President of Council! I couldn't get elected second deputy a.s.sistant dog-catcher!"

Aloud, he said slowly: "I'm afraid it was premature, that's all."

"Oh, no, it wasn't! You've no _idea_ how people are talking about it."

"Oh, yes, I have," said Mr. Mix, but he hadn't the temerity to put a sarcastic stress on it. He was wondering whether, if he issued a statement to a.s.sure the public that what was in those pamphlets was pure idealism, and not to be taken as his outline of any immediate campaign, he could remove at least the outer layer of the bad impression, and save his amendment from the wreck. He had thought, earlier, that he wouldn't need that amendment as a personal weapon against Henry, but the value of it had appreciated by the possibility of losing it. As to the state-wide law, Mr. Mix was totally unconcerned. "Oh, yes, I have," he said.

"Don't get too conceited, though, Theodore. The _best_ part of it was mine."

Mr. Mix's eagle eye saw a loophole. "You don't think I'm going to take praise for what belongs to _you_, do you?" he demanded.

"Why--"

"No, sir!" said Mr. Mix. "Not exactly. I'm going to tell the truth about it at our next meeting, and I'm going to send a statement to the _Herald_."

"Oh, it doesn't matter."

"It matters to me. Maybe I'm too finicky, but that's the kind of man I am."

"You're too generous," she murmured.

Mr. Mix wiped away a stray bead of perspiration, and breathed more freely. With Mirabelle's money to back him, and the stigma of those two pamphlets removed, perhaps he had a fighting chance for the mayoralty yet.

It was a house-wedding, with very few guests, no decorations, and perfectly digestible refreshments. When the last of the party had gone down the steps, Mirabelle, in a travelling-suit which was new in comparison with the rest of her wardrobe, approached the bridegroom.

"Theodore, I want you to have your gift before we start. I don't want you to feel too dependent on me. Maybe after next month I'll make some kind of a settlement on you, but that's neither here nor there. So ...

take it, and I hope it's what you wanted."

He took it, and his fingers trembled. A check? And for what generous amount?

"_Well_--aren't you going to thank me?"

Mr. Mix tried to speak, but the lump in his throat prevented him. She had given him what was the legal equivalent of five thousand dollars, but it wasn't in the form of a check. It was his own demand note, payable to John Starkweather and endorsed by him to Mirabelle. The word "Cancelled" was written, in Mirabelle's angular hand, across the face of it.

CHAPTER XIV

As Henry and his wife went down the steps, they exchanged glances and smiled faintly. "First time I've been in that house for seven months,"

said Henry, half to himself. "It's a bully old shack, too. I lived in it ever since I was six."

"Still, we're pretty comfortable right where we are, dear."

Henry lagged a little. "That _does_ hurt my feelings. Of course, I'm so busy I could live in a dog-kennel and hardly notice it, but when _you_ have to camp day in and day out in that measly little joint, and smell everybody else's corned beef and cabbage, and dig like a general-housework girl and cook, and manicure the stove, and peel the potatoes and dust off the what-not and so on--not that you haven't made it a mighty pretty place, because you _have_--without one day's vacation since last August--"

"But I've told you so often, dear, I'm _glad_ to do it if it helps you."

"It helped a lot. If you hadn't done it in the first place, I wouldn't have had the cash on hand to tie up the rest of the picture houses.

But that time's gone by. I don't see why in thunder you won't hire some servants. And at least you could pike up into the country for a week. Why don't you?"

She hesitated, for temptation was strong, and she was really very tired. "Maybe it's just because I want to play the game out, too. It's only two months more."

"And after that," he said firmly, "we're going to move. I'll have enough to buy a young bungle-house up on the hill, even if I don't get anything from Archer. And then I'm going to make up to you for this year--see if I don't."

"Would you sell the Orpheum?"

"Sell it!" he echoed. "I'd sell it so quick you'd think it was a fake oil-well! I could, too. Bob Standish sends me a proposition from somebody about once a week."