"Choate and I know him, better than you or any other woman can in a thousand years."
"You think he's the same man he was in college."
"Fellows like Moore don't change. There's something inherently rotten in 'em you can't sweeten out."
"Jeffrey, I assure you he has changed. He's a power for good. And when he gets his nomination, he'll be more of a power yet."
"Nomination. For what?"
"Mayor."
"Weedon Moore mayor of this town? Why, the cub! We'll duck him, Choate and I." They were climbing the rise to her red brick house, large and beautiful and kindly. It really looked much like Miss Amabel herself, a little unkempt, but generous and belonging to an older time. They went in and Jeffrey, while she took off her bonnet and gloves, stood looking about him in the landscape-papered hall.
"Go into the east room, dear," said she. "Why, Jeff, what is it?"
He was standing still, looking now up the stairs.
"Oh," said he, "I believe I'm going to cry. It hasn't changed—any more than you have. You darling!"