“And besides,” Vernon hurried on, suddenly taking a different course with her, “you could be a great help to me. I never address the Senate that I don’t think of you, and wish you were there to hear me.”
“I should like to hear you,” said Amelia, softening a little. “But of course I couldn’t think of appearing in the Senate.”
“Why not? Ladies often appear there.”
“Yes, overdressed, no doubt.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have to be overdressed,” Vernon retorted. He seemed to have the advantage, but he decided to forego it. He sank back on the cushions of his chair, folding his hands and plainly taking the rest a senator needs after his legislative labors.
“Of course,” he said, “we needn’t discuss it now. The governor may not call the special session. If the party—” but he paused, thinking how little interested she was in the party.
“I wish you’d let politics alone,” Amelia went on relentlessly. “It seems so—so common. I don’t see what there is in it to attract you. And how am I ever going to explain your absence to those people to-morrow night? Tell them that politics detained you, I suppose?” She looked at him severely, and yet triumphantly, as if she had reduced the problem to an absurdity.
“Why,” said Vernon, “you can tell them that I was called suddenly to Springfield; that an important matter in the Senate—”
“The Senate!” Amelia sneered.
“But dearest,” Vernon began, leaning over in an attitude for argument.