The belated returns, which should have been telegraphed at once to the League headquarters, were still further delayed by the fact that the one wire now running into town had been preëmpted by Conover. Hence, it was not until well after one o’clock that Clive received definite news of his own election. Throngs of friends and supporters had, on receipt of the final figures, flocked about him with congratulations and good wishes. To all he had given seeming heed, yet among the crush he saw but one face, read in one pair of brown eyes the praise and infinite gladness he sought.
And as soon as he could he departed with Anice and her aunt for the latter’s home, where a little souper à trois was to celebrate the victory.
They formed a jolly trio about the dainty supper table. Late as it was, all were far too excited to feel sleepy or wish to curtail by one minute the little feast of triumph.
“To the next Governor of the Mountain State!” proclaimed Anice solemnly, as she lifted her glass. “To be drunk standing, and with—No, no, Clive,” she reproved as the Governor-elect also rose. “You mustn’t drink it. It’s——”
“I’m not going to,” retorted Standish indignantly. “I’m getting up to look for a dictionary.”
“But what on earth——”
“I want to find the feminine for Governor. And——”
A whirr of the telephone bell broke in on his explanation.
“Some stupid political message for you,” hazarded Anice, taking down the receiver. “Yes, this is 318 R. Yes. Yes, this is Miss La—Oh!” with a changed intonation, “Mrs. Conover?”
A longer pause. Then Anice gave a little exclamation of sympathy, listened a moment and said: