orders."
"Oh, hang the doctor, Louise. Being in Boston with Becky will be
like--wine----"
But she was not satisfied. "You always throw yourself into things
so--desperately----"
"Well, when I lose my enthusiasm I want to--die."
"No, you don't, Arch. Don't say things like that." Her voice was
sharp.
He patted her hand. "I won't. But don't curb me too much, old girl.
Let me play--while I can----"
They arrived in Boston to find a city under martial law, a city whose
streets were patrolled by khaki-clad figures with guns, whose traffic
was regulated by soldierly semaphores, who linked intelligence with
military training, and picturesqueness with both.
For a short season Boston had been in the hands of the mob. All of her
traditions of law and order had not saved her. It had been her
punishment perhaps for leaving law and order in the hands of those who
cared nothing for them. People with consciences had preferred to keep
out of politics. So for a time demagogues had gotten the ear of the
people, and chaos had resulted until a quiet governor had proved
himself as firm as steel, and soldiers had replaced the policemen who
had for a moment followed false gods.
"It all proves what I brought you here to see," Cope told Becky eagerly.
Coffee was being served in the library of the Meredith mansion on
Beacon Street. The Admiral's library was as ruddy and twinkling as the
little man himself. He had furnished it to suit his own taste. A
great davenport of puffy red velvet was set squarely in front of a
fireplace with shining brasses. The couch was balanced by a heavy gilt
chair also in puffy red. The mantel was in white marble, and over the
mantel was an oil portrait of the Admiral's wife painted in '76. She
wore red velvet with a train, and with the pearls which had come down
to Becky. The room had been keyed up to her portrait, and had then
been toned down with certain heavy pieces of ebony, a cabinet of black
lacquer, the dark books which lined the wall to the ceiling. The room
was distinctly nineteenth-century. If it lacked the eighteenth-century
exquisiteness of the house at Nantucket, with its reminder of austere
Quaker prejudices, it was none the less appropriate as a glowing
background for the gay old Admiral.
Becky and Cope sat on the red davenport. It was so wide that Becky was
almost lost in a corner of it. The old butler, Charles, served the
coffee. The coffee service was of rep
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