little delegation in
frock-coats and silk hats, and as Mr. Starkweather beheld them, he
lifted his eyebrows; some of those older men he hadn't seen in public
for a dozen years--he had forgotten that they were alive. But the
majority of them were retired or retiring capitalists; men who in
their day, had managed important interests, and even now controlled
them. Mr. Starkweather reflected that life must have become very
insipid to them; and he further reflected that their place in this
organization must be as shock-troops. They would seldom go into
action, but when they did, they had the power of consequence to give
them an added momentum.

His sister caught sight of him, and waved her hand in greeting; and
this astonished him all the more, because since Henry's departure, she
had behaved towards him as though his character needed a bath.

Mr. Starkweather made room for her. "Thought I'd give you a lift back
to the house," he said.

There was an unusual colour in her cheeks, and her eyes were
brilliant. "John, do you know what I am?"

Mr. Starkweather didn't dare to hesitate. "No. What?"

"I'm the--president," she said, and her voice was trembling with pride
and bewilderment.

"President? Of the League?"

Transfigured, she nodded again and again. "The nominating committee
reported this morning. I'm the only candidate...." She stared at him
and stiffened. "Of course, I know you aren't interested in anything
helpful or progressive, so I don't expect to be congratulated. Of
course not."

Mr. Starkweather made a dutiful struggle to be joyous about it,
and succeeded only in producing a feeble smirk. "I'll say one
thing--you've got some money represented in that crowd. Those old
codgers. I didn't realize it.... Well, what's your program?"

She unbent a little, and began to recite her platform, and as she
skipped from plank to plank, her own enthusiasm was multiplied, and
Mr. Starkweather was correspondingly encased in gloom. As a mere
active member of the League, a private in the ranks, Mirabelle had
made his house no more cheerful as a mausoleum; and when he considered
what she might accomplish as a president, in charge of a sweeping
blue-law campaign, his imagination refused to take the hurdle.

Fortunately, he wasn't expected to say anything. His sister was making
a speech. She didn't stop when the car stopped, nor when Mr.
Starkweather climbed down stiffly, and held open the door for her, nor
even when they h