Weatherford, had political aspirations pointing toward a United
States senatorship, the election to which would fall within the province
of the next legislature. The mine-owner himself, a pudgy little man with
a bald spot on top of his head and a corner-grocery point of view
carefully tucked away inside of it--an outlook upon life which was a
survival from his hard-working past--would willingly have dodged, but
Mrs. Weatherford was inexorable. There were two grown daughters and a
growing son, and it was for these that she was socially ambitious.
The reception for which the senator's wife and her guest had driven
thirty miles through the dust of the sage-brush hills was one of the
many moves in Mrs. Weatherford's private campaign. For the opening-gun
occasion the great house in Mesa Circle was lighted from basement to
turret--to all of the numerous turrets; an awning fringed with electric
bulbs sheltered the carpeted walk from the street to the grand entrance,
an army of lackeys paraded in the vestibule, and the wives and daughters
of the bravest and best in the capital city's political contingent stood
with Mrs. Weatherford in the long receiving-line.
From room to room in the vast house a curiously assorted throng of the
bidden ones worked its way as the jam and crush permitted. A firm
believer in the maxim that in numbers there is strength, the hostess had
made her invitation-list long and catholic.
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