“No.”
“Oh! But I've heard it said, political power was safe in the hands of those who had to make a sacrifice in order to accept it.”
“I won't make it.”
“It turns out a hypocritical sacrifice for me, you know. I'm on the highroad to corruption. You might stay in Port Argent and keep me honest. Will you?”
“No.”
“All right. Good-night.”
The little side streets between Seton Avenue and Maple Street were shaded by young maples, the street lamps frequent, and now being lit. Hennion and Camilla walked slowly. She shivered once or twice, and half sobbed, and clung to him. They talked very little at first.
“Milly,” he said at last, “of course, you know, I'm backing you, anyway. You shall do as you like.”
“I know, Dick. You're good. You're very good to me.”
“Well—maybe I'm wrong—I've been that before—but it looks to me in this way, that, after all, most impossible things are possible somehow, or somehow else, and it's better to go straight at the steep places. It stirs your blood to see how steep they are. I don't know altogether—I don't ask—but if you see anything that looks steep ahead, why, perhaps it is, perhaps it is—but then, what of it? And that's the moral I've been hedging around to, Milly.”