I
tell you, little woman, there's a thing we politicians are constantly
losing sight of: that down at the bedrock bottom the American
voter--'the man in the street,' as the newspapers call him--is a fair
man and an honest man. Speaking broadly, you couldn't buy him with a
clear title to a quarter-section in Paradise."
This little eulogy upon the American voter appeared to be wasted upon
the small person in the wicker rocking-chair. "We must get him back,"
she remarked, referring, not to the American voter, but to the senator's
son. "Have you thought of any plan?"
"No."
She smiled up at him sweetly. "You are like the good doctor who cannot
prescribe for the members of his own family. If he were anybody else's
son, you would know exactly what to do."
"Perhaps I should."
"I have a plan," she went on quietly, bending again over her embroidery.
"He may have to take a regular course of treatment, and it may make him
very ill; would you mind that?"
David Blount leaned back in his chair and regarded her through
half-closed eyelids. "You're a wonder, little woman," he said; and then:
"I don't want to see the boy suffer any more than he has to."
"Neither do I," was the swift agreement. Then, with no apparent
relevance: "What do you think of Miss Anners?"
The senator sat up at the question, with the slow smile wrinkling
humorously at the corners of his eyes.
Pages:
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125