“It was, of course, just what I had always predicted,” she went on, in a staccato that was timed by the rise of her fork to her lips, “I knew that politics would inevitably corrupt you, soon or late. And now it has brought you to this.”
“To what?” asked Vernon, suddenly growing bold and reckless. Amelia had not given him one glance; she was picking at her chop.
Mrs. Overman Hodge-Lathrop, raising her gold glasses and setting them aristocratically on the bridge of her nose, fixed her eyes on Vernon.
“Morley,” she said, “we know. We have heard and we have read. The Chicago press is an institution that, fortunately, still survives in these iconoclastic days. You know very well, of course, what I mean. Please do not compel me to go into the revolting particulars.” She took her glasses down from her nose, as if that officially terminated the matter.
“But really, Mrs. Hodge-Lathrop,” said Vernon. He was growing angry, and then, too, he was conscious somehow that Miss Greene was looking at him. His waiter, John, timidly approached with a glance at the awful presence of Mrs. Overman Hodge-Lathrop, and said:
“Yo’ breakfus, Senato’, is gettin’ col’.”
“That may wait,” said Mrs. Overman Hodge-Lathrop, and John sprang back out of range.
Vernon was determined, then, to have it out.
“Really, Mrs. Hodge-Lathrop, jesting aside—”
“Jesting!” cried Mrs. Overman Hodge-Lathrop, “jesting! Indeed, my boy, this is quite a serious business!” She tapped with her forefinger.