Miss Amabel put her hand on his shoulder, and he drew it to his lips; and then she slipped it through his arm and they went into the east room together, which also had not changed, and Jeff took his accustomed place on the sofa under the portrait of the old judge, Miss Amabel's grandfather. Jeff shook off sentiment, the softness he could not afford.
"I tell you I won't have it," he said. "Weedon Moore isn't going to be mayor of this town. Besides he can't. He hasn't been in politics—"
"More or less," said she.
"Run for office?"
"Yes."
"Ever get any?"
"No."
"There! what d'I tell you?"
"But he has a following of his own now," said she, in a quiet triumph, he thought. "Since he has done so much for labour."
"What's he done?"