"Let them have it. I'd rather the world should think the men gave us the ballot willingly, and that it should never be known that we beat them out of it," she said, heaving a sigh of relief.
A young man and a young woman were seated behind the vine on the veranda three doors down the avenue. His arm was about her waist, her head upon his shoulder. The moon was doing what she could to cover them with the mottled shadows of leaves.
"Could you manage it in two weeks, dear? I want you for my wife before I begin my own campaign! We'd make a honeymoon of it then, canvassing it together!" he pleaded softly.
"I'll marry you, Bob, but not for such a honeymoon as that! Oh, I'm sick and tired of politics. I never want to hear the word again. I'll just barely vote for you, that's all!" she sighed.
"Upon my word," he laughed, drawing her closer and kissing her. "I thought you'd be keen for the canvass."
"'Bob, I'll make a confession to you. It's been horrid, from first to last. When we are married I want to sit at home and darn your socks—you do wear holes in them, don't you?'"
"Bob!" she said, sitting up and looking at him solemnly, "I'll make a confession to you, now it's over and we have won; it's been horrid, from first to last. When we are married I want to sit at home and darn your socks—you do wear holes in them, don't you?" She laughed hysterically. "I believe it would relieve some outraged instinct in me if I could iron your shirts! Isn't it awful! I crave to do just the woman things—to serve you and father. I feel as if nothing else will ever naturalize me again as a woman!"