“Well,” and Garwood smiled his old consequential smile once more and gathered his power to put others ill at ease, “it amounted to that.”
“No, you are a bit mistaken, Mr. Garwood,” Pusey replied. “What I did was to oppose instructions. I believed, you know, in sending a delegation to the convention that shall be absolutely free and untrammeled, so that it might be, as I may say, instantly responsive to the will of the people. That is all.”
“Oh, I see,” said Garwood; “I see. But let me ask this—you are opposed to my nomination, aren’t you?”
Pusey was silent and did not answer for a long time. He cut out another paragraph and cocked his little head to one side, tilting the old straw hat ridiculously as he trimmed the edges of the slip with unusual and unnecessary care.
“No,” he said at length, “I haven’t said that, either.”
“Well, then, to get at it in another way—you will pardon me, Mr. Pusey, for my persistent interrogation—let me ask you this: You are in favor of Mr. Sprague’s nomination, are you not?”
“I haven’t said that, either,” Pusey promptly replied.
“Then, if I understand your position, you are free and untrammeled like the delegation. Is that right?”
“Exactly,” said Pusey, laying down his scissors and his papers, folding his hands in his lap, and screwing about in his chair until for the first time he squarely faced Garwood, at whom he looked pertly, as little men can, through his spectacles, “exactly.”
He snapped out the word as if he relished it.