As I came into the room the General raised his eyes. They were tear-brimmed and he made no shift to hide them.
“Major,” he said with trembling lip, gazing the while on the miniature, “she strove to make me a Christian. I gave her my promise to become a Christian. And so I shall when once I'm done with office and back again at home. I would become one now, were it within the domain of what might be. But who is he who could unite politics and Christ? I'm no hypocrite, Major; you know that! You know what a politician is; you know what a Christian should be. No man may be both, Major; no man may be both.”
“You are not a politician,” I retorted. “You are a president.”
This I got off with a gruff air of harshness, not, however, because it drew a true distinction. I sought to call him from his present mood. The General was unusual in so far that a best step towards comforting him was to irritate him. In his breast he loved collision, and might even leave mourning for a war.
“I am a president and not a politician!” This with a gather of scorn. “And pray, when is a president not a politician?”
With a deprecatory gesture I dismissed the point.
“Let that remain,” I replied, “as a question wherewith to rack some further moment. I came for another matter.” The General turned a keen eye upon me. “You spoke of Eaton for your portfolio of war,” I continued.
“Have you considered what objection might lodge against such course?”
“Go on,” he said.
“General, I misdoubt the wisdom of the step. I will make my word plain. There is none to be more the friend of Eaton than myself, none to respect him more. But, sir, you are aware of what folk say.”