rupt. "Why does it mean so much to you?" he asked, sparring for
time.

"It would be an epoch in the history of the League, Mr. Mix."

"You spoke about leadership. No one can hope to replace yourself."

"Thank you--I know you mean it. But _no_ woman can lead a campaign
such as the one we're just starting. It takes a strong, dominant man
who knows politics. Of course, when we go after dancing and cards and
dress-reform, I guess I can do all right, but in _this_ campaign--"

"What campaign is this, Miss Starkweather?"

"Sunday enforcement."

Mr. Mix pursed his lips. "Really?"

She nodded. "We're going to concentrate on one thing at a time. That's
first."

"Close all the theatres and everything?"

"Tight!" she said, and the word was like the lash of a whip. "Tight as
a drum."

Mr. Mix controlled himself rigidly. "You'll have to pardon my seeming
indelicacy, but--" He coughed behind his hand. "That might bring about
a very unhappy relationship between my family and yours. Had you
thought of it?"

"Henry? Humph! Yes. I'm sorry, but I don't propose to let my family or
anybody else's stand in the way of my principles. Do _you_? No. If
Henry stands in the way, he's going to get run over. Mark my words."

His expression was wooden, but it concealed a thought which had
flashed up, spontaneously, to dazzle him. In spite of his age and
experience, Mr. Mix threatened to blush. The downfall of Henry meant
the elevation of Mirabelle. Mr. Mix himself could assist in swinging
the balance. And he couldn't quite destroy a picture of Mirabelle,
walking down the aisle out of step to the wedding march. Her arms were
loaded with exotic flowers, of which each petal was a crisp yellow
bank-bill. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to snort in deprecation, and
he did neither. He was too busy with the consciousness that at last he
was in a position to capitalize his information. He knew what nobody
else did, outside of Henry and his wife, Mirabelle, Mr. Archer and
probably Judge Barklay and if he flung himself into the League's
campaign, what might he now accomplish?

He looked at Mirabelle. Her eyes betrayed her admiration. Mr. Mix drew
a very long breath, and in the space of ten seconds thought ahead for
a year. The League was ridiculously radical, but if Mr. Mix were
appointed to direct it, he was confident that he could keep Mirabelle
contented, without making himself too much of a ludicrous figure. All
it needed was tact, and fores