into
things and mine out pleasures, and shake them in the faces of the mob
and the mob will follow us."

The colonel had ceased eating waffles. His thin hand, not so delicate
now that it had learned the touch of toil, trembled a little as it held
his fork.

"Jeff," said he, "what do you want to do?"

"I want," said Jeff, "to keep this town out of the clutch of Weedie
Moore."

"You can't do it. Not so long as Amabel is backing him. She's got
unlimited cash, and she thinks he's God Almighty and she wants him to be
mayor."

"It's a far cry," said Jeff, "from God Almighty to mayor. But Alston
Choate is going to be nominated for mayor, and he's going to get it."

"He won't take it," said Anne impulsively, and bit her lip.

"How do you know?" asked Jeff.

"He hates politics."

"He hates Addington more as it is."

They got up and moved to the library, standing about for a moment, while
Farvie held the morning paper for a cursory glance, before separating
for their different deeds. When Farvie and Anne had gone Jeff took up
the paper and Lydia lingered. Jeff felt the force of her silent waiting.
It seemed to bore a hole through the paper itself and knock at his brain
to be let in. He threw the paper down.

"Well?" said he.

Lydia was all alive. Her small face seemed drawn to a point of
eagerness. She spoke.

"Alston Choate isn't the man for mayor."

"Who is?"

"You."

Jeff slowly smiled at her.

"I?" he said. "How many votes do you think I'd get?"

"All the foreign vote. And the best streets wouldn't vote at all."

"Why?"

She bit her lip. She had not meant to say it.

"No," said Jeff, interpreting for her, "maybe they wouldn't. That's like
Addington. It wouldn't stand for me, but it would be too well-bred to
stand against me. No, Lyddy, I shouldn't get a show. And I don't want a
show. All I want is to bust Weedon Moore."

Lydia looked the unmovable obstinacy she felt stiffening every fibre of
her.

"You're all wrong," she said. "You could have anything you wanted."

"Who says so?"

"Madame Beattie."

"I wish," said Jeff, "that old harpy would go to Elba or Siberia or the
devil. I'm not going to run for office."

"What are you going to do?" asked Lydia, in a small voice. She was
resting a hand on the table, and the hand trembled.

"It's a question of what I won't do, at present. I won't go down there
to the hall and make an ass of myself talking history and be dished by
that old marplot