“Pooh! You’re ambitious yourself, Curt.”
“With the before-mentioned qualifications. Look here, Viva, here’s a line for you to remember. I ran across it in a book. ‘If you do only what is absolutely correct and say only what is absolutely correct—you can do anything you like.’ How’s that?”
“I don’t see any sense in it at all.”
“No? I told you you lacked common sense. Most women do.”
“Huh!” and Genevieve tossed her pretty head, patted her curly ear-muffs, and proceeded with her work.
Samuel Appleby’s beautiful home graced the town of Stockfield, in the western end of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Former Governor Appleby was still a political power and a man of unquestioned force and importance.
It was fifteen years or more since he had held office, and now, a great desire possessed him that his son should follow in his ways, and that his beloved state should know another governor of the Appleby name.
And young Sam was worthy of the people’s choice. Himself a man of forty, motherless from childhood, and brought up sensibly and well by his father, he listened gravely to the paternal plans for the campaign.
But there were other candidates, and not without some strong and definite influences could the end be attained.
Wherefore, Mr. Appleby was quite as much interested as his secretary in the letter which was in the morning’s mail.