A moment's silence, and then Number One said: "No."

"Well," said Peter, "I'll take the nomination if necessary, but keep it back for a time, till we see if something better can't be hit upon."

"No danger," said Number One, holding out his hand, gleefully.

"There's more ways of killing a pig than choking it with b.u.t.ter," said Number Three, laughing and doing the same.

"It's a pity Costell isn't here," added the previous questioner. "After you're not yielding to him, he'd never believe we had forced you to take it."

And that was what actually took place at that very-much-talked-about dinner.

Peter went downstairs with a very serious look on his face. At the door, the keeper of it said: "There are six reporters in the strangers' room, Mr. Stirling, who wish to see you."

A man who had just come in said: "I'm sorry for you, Peter."

Peter smiled quietly. "Tell them our wishes are not mutual." Then he turned to the newcomer. "It's all right," he said, "so far as the party is concerned, Hummel. But I'm to foot the bill to do it."

"The devil! You don't mean--?"

Peter nodded his head.

"I'll give twenty-five thousand to the fund," said Hummel, gleefully.

"See if I don't."

"Excuse me, Mr. Stirling," said a man who had just come in.

"Certainly," said Peter promptly, "But I must ask the same favor of you, as I am going down town at once." Peter had the brutality to pa.s.s out of the front door instantly, leaving the reporter with a disappointed look on his face.

"If he only would have said something?" groaned the reporter to himself.

"Anything that could be spun into a column. He needn't have told me what he didn't care to tell, yet he could have helped me to pay my month's rent as easily as could be."

As for Peter, he fell into a long stride, and his face nearly equalled his stride in length. After he reached his quarters he sat and smoked, with the same serious look. He did not look cross. He did not have the gloom in his face which had been so fixed an expression for the last month. But he looked as a man might look who knew he had but a few hours to live, yet to whom death had no terror.

"I am giving up," Peter thought, "everything that has been my true life till now. My profession, my friends, my chance to help others, my books, and my quiet. I shall be misunderstood, reviled and hated. Everything I do will be distorted for partisan purposes. Friends will misjudge.

Enemies will become the more bitter. I give up fifty thousand dollars a year in order to become a slave, with toadies, trappers, lobbyists and favor-seekers as my daily quota of humanity. I even sacrifice the larger part of my power."

So ran Peter's thoughts, and they were the thoughts of a man who had not worked seventeen years in politics for nothing. He saw alienation of friends, income, peace, and independence, and the only return a mere t.i.tle, which to him meant a loss, rather than a gain of power. Yet this was one of the dozen prizes thought the best worth striving for in our politics. Is it a wonder that our government and office-holding is left to the foreign element? That the native American should prefer any other work, rather than run the gauntlet of public opinion and press, with loss of income and peace, that he may hold some difficult office for a brief term?

But finally Peter rose. "Perhaps she'll like it," he said aloud, and presumably, since no woman is allowed a voice in American politics, he was thinking of Miss Columbia. Then he looked at some photographs, a sc.r.a.p of ribbon, a gold coin (Peter clearly was becoming a money worshipper), three letters, a card, a small piece of blotting-paper, a handkerchief (which Leonore and Peter had spent nearly ten minutes in trying to find one day), a glove, and some dried rose-leaves and violets. Yet this was the man who had grappled an angry tiger but two hours before and had brought it to lick his hand.

He went to bed very happy.

CHAPTER XLIX.

CLOUDS.

But a month later he was far happier, for one morning towards the end of August, his mail brought him a letter from Watts, announcing that they had been four days installed in their Newport home, and that Peter would now be welcome any time. "I have purposely not filled Grey-Court this summer, so that you should have every chance. Between you and me and the post, I think there have been moments when mademoiselle missed 'her friend' far more than she confessed."

"Dat's stronory," thought Jenifer. "He dun eat mo' dis yar hot mo'nin'

dan he dun in two mumfs."

Then Jenifer was sent out with a telegram, which merely said: "May I come to-day by Sh.o.r.e line limited? P.S."

"When you get back, Jenifer," said Peter, "you may pack my trunk and your own. We may start for Newport at two." Evidently Peter did not intend to run any risks of missing the train, in case the answer should be favorable.

Peter pa.s.sed into his office, and set to work to put the loose ends in such shape that nothing should go wrong during his absence. He had not worked long, when one of the boys told him that:

"Mr. Ca.s.sius Curlew wants to see you, Mr. Stirling."

Peter stopped his writing, looking up quickly: "Did he say on what business?"

"No."

"Ask him, please." And Peter went on writing till the boy returned.

"He says it's about the convention."

"Tell him he must be more specific."

The boy returned in a moment with a folded sc.r.a.p of paper.

"He said that would tell you, Mr. Stirling."

Peter unfolded the sc.r.a.p, and read upon it: "A message from Maguire."

"Show him in." Peter touched a little k.n.o.b on his desk on which was stamped "Chief Clerk." A moment later a man opened a door. "Samuels,"

said Peter, "I wish you would stay here for a moment. I want you to listen to what's said."

The next moment a man crossed the threshold of another door.

"Good-morning, Mr. Stirling," he said.

"Mr. Curlew," said Peter, without rising and with a cold inclination of his head.

"I have a message for you, Mr. Stirling," said the man, pulling a chair into a position that suited him, and sitting, "but it's private."

Peter said nothing, but began to write.

"Do you understand? I want a word with you private," said the man after a pause.

"Mr. Samuels is my confidential clerk. You can speak with perfect freedom before him." Peter spoke without raising his eyes from his writing.

"But I don't want any one round. It's just between you and me."

"When I got your message," said Peter, still writing, "I sent for Mr.

Samuels. If you have anything to say, say it now. Otherwise leave it unsaid."