"One day you 'll have to try it, whether you want to or not."
"When will that be?"
"Don't know. Might be next year but one. Old Barlow 's pretty certain to be chosen for next November. It's looked on as his turn next. I know there's been a good bit of talk about me for the year after Barlow. Of course, Bloor's death will advance everything by a year. But even if I come next after Barlow it 'll be too late."
"Too late? Too late for what?"
"I'll tell you," said Denry. "I wanted to be the youngest mayor that Bursley 's ever had. It was only a kind of notion I had, a long time ago. I 'd given it up, because I knew there was no chance, unless I came before Bloor, which of course I could n't do. Now he 's dead. If I could upset old Barlow's apple-cart I should just be the youngest mayor by the skin of my teeth. Huskinson, the mayor in 1884, was aged thirty-four and six months. I 've looked it all up this afternoon."
"How lovely if you could be the youngest mayor!"
"Yes. I'll tell you how I feel. I feel as though I didn't want to be mayor at all if I can't be the youngest mayor ... you know."
She knew.
"Oh!" she cried. "Do upset Mr. Barlow's apple-cart. He's a horrid old thing. Should I be the youngest mayoress?"
"Not by chalks!" said he. "Huskinson's sister was only sixteen."