“No, no,” she faltered. “You must not think it. It isn't—you see, I—there is nothing!”
“You shall not dull the edge of my hilarity,” he answered, “especially since so much may be forgiven it.”
“Why did you leave Mr. Harkless?” she asked, without raising her eyes.
“My dear girl,” he replied, “because, for some inexplicable reason, my lady cousin has not nominated me for Congress, but instead has chosen to bestow that distinction upon another, and, I may say, an unworthier and unfitter man than I. And, oddly enough, the non-discriminating multitude were not cheering for me; the artillery was not in action to celebrate me; the band was not playing to do me honor; therefore why should I ride in the midst of a procession that knows me not? Why should I enthrone me in an open barouche—a little faded and possibly not quite secure as to its springs, but still a barouche—with four white horses to draw it, and draped with silken flags, both barouche and steeds? Since these things were not for me, I flew to your side to dissemble my spleen under the licensed prattle of a cousin.”
“Then who is with him?”
“The population of this portion of our State, I take it.”
“Oh, it's all right,” said the judge, leaning back to speak to Helen. “Keating and Smith and your father are to ride in the carriage with him. You needn't be afraid of any of them letting him know that H. Fisbee is a lady. Everybody understands about that; of course they know it's to be left to you to break it to him how well a girl has run his paper.” The old gentleman chuckled, and looked out of the corner of his eye at his daughter, whose expression was inscrutable.
“I!” cried Helen. “I tell him! No one must tell him. He need never know it.”
Briscoe reached back and patted her cheek. “How long do you suppose he will be here in Plattville without it's leaking out?”
“But they kept guard over him for months and nobody told him.”