"But how are the papers going to know?" says I.
E. E. laughed.
"Oh, Dempster will manage that; he's hand-and-glove with ever so many city editors," says she.
"Oh!" says I.
"There are some things that even genius itself don't know how to manage," says E. E., nodding her head, and smiling slyly; "but they can be done. As soon as we get to Washington, all the papers there will catch fire from New York, and the Senate will get up another committee, and vote you a seat in the diplomatic gallery by ballot. We'll break right into the Japanese furore, and carry off the palm," says she, kindling up like a heap of pine shavings when a match touches it.
I began to feel the proud Frosty blood melting in my bosom.
"The woman who writes is more than equal to the man who votes," says she.
"There is no comparison," says I. "Women are women and men are men—nobody thinks of comparing rose-bushes and oak-trees—one makes timber and the other perfume; we shelter the roses, and let the oaks battle for themselves. So it ought to be with men and women—"
Cousin E. E. cut me short.
"That is beautifully expressed," says she, "but save it for one of your reports or literary conversations; my head is full of Washington."