, two
sets of supporting chains, and a half foot of blue silk ribbon, with
white lettering, and Mirabelle continued to wear it for two reasons:
she was proud of it, and Mr. Mix had made his initial attempt to be
masterful, and told her twenty-four hours ago that it looked as though
she belonged to the Third Ward Chowder Club. Since then, she had
reproached him afresh whenever she caught him looking at it. And
inasmuch as it could hardly be avoided by anyone who cast the briefest
glance in her general direction, he had been in hot water from Chicago
to the present moment. He couldn't even escape to the smoking room.

When a man is telling himself that a woman has made a fool of him in
public, and that every one in the neighborhood is amused to watch him,
he finds it peculiarly difficult to carry on a conversation with the
woman. But Mr. Mix saw that Mirabelle was about to converse, and
glowering at a drummer across the aisle, he beat her to it.

"Seems to me the League had an almighty gall to wire you for that
three thousand dollars, Mirabelle. If it had been _my_ money, I'd
have hung on to it until I knew what they wanted it for."

She straightened her lips. "Well, it wasn't, was it?--So I didn't, did
I?... If I can't have faith in my own associates, who _can_ I have it
in? And it isn't a gift; it's a loan. Treasurer said he needed it
right off, and there wasn't anybody else to get it from in a hurry."
She caught his eyes wandering towards her gorgeous insignia, and her
own eyes snapped back at him. "And I hope at least I'm to have the
privilege of doing what I choose with my own money. Don't forget that
women are _people_, now, just as much as men are. After the first of
August, maybe I'll--"

"Mirabelle. Sh-h!"

"No, I won't either," she retorted. "I don't _care_ to shush. After
the first of August, maybe you'll have your share, and I won't presume
to interfere with _you_. So don't you interfere with _me_. If the
League had to have money, it was for some proper purpose. And it
wasn't a gift; it was a loan. And if I couldn't trust--"

"Oh, give it a drink!" said Mr. Mix, under his breath; and while he
maintained an attitude of courteous attention, he barricaded his ears
as best he could, and shut Mirabelle out of his consciousness.

Even in Chicago, he had received bulletins from the seat of war; they
had merely confirmed his previous knowledge that Henry was beaten,
thoroughly and irretrievably. A few more wee