less personal channels.

"We hear so much about romance, especially since its widely advertised
death," he said. "And to every man I ever met, it meant something
different. Mr. Cargan, speaking as a broad-minded man of the world--what
does romance mean to you?"

The mayor ran his fingers through his graying hair, and considered
seriously.

"Romance," he reflected. "Well, I ain't much on the talk out of books.
But here's what I see when you say that word to me. It's the night
before election, and I'm standing in the front window of the little room
on Main Street where the boys can always find me. Down the street I hear
the snarl and rumble of bands, and pretty soon I see the yellow flicker
of torches, like the flicker of that candle, and the bobbing of banners.
And then--the boys march by. All the boys! Pat Doherty, and Bob Larsen,
and Matt Sanders--all the boys! And when they get to my window they wave
their hats and cheer. Just a fat old man in that window, but they'll go
to the pavement with any guy that knocks him. They're loyal. They're for
me. And so they march by--cheering and singing--all the boys--just for
me to see and hear. Well--that--that's romance to me."

"Power," translated Mr. Magee.

"Yes, sir," cried the mayor. "I know I've got them. All the reformers in
the world can't spoil my thrill then. They're mine. I guess old Napoleon
knew that thrill. I guess he was the greatest romancer the world ever
knew. When he marched over the mountains with his starving bunch--and
looked back and saw them in rags and suffering--for him--well I reckon
old Nap was as close to romance then as any man ever gets."

"I wonder," answered Mr. Magee. It came to him suddenly that in each
person's definition of this intangible thing might lie exposed something
of both character and calling. At the far end of the table Mrs. Norton's
lined tired face met his gaze. To her he put his question.

"Well," she answered, and her voice seemed softer than its wont, "I
ain't thought much of that word for a good many years now. But when I
do--say, I seem to see myself sitting on our porch back home--thirty
years ago. I've got on a simple little muslin dress, and I'm slender as
Elsie Janis, and the color in my cheeks is--well, it's the sort that
Norton likes. And my hair--but--I'm thinking of him, of Norton. He's
told me he wants to make me happy for life, and I've about decided I'll
let him try. I see him--coming up our front walk. Com