"Going to announce their plans, I hear."
"Well, I hope they do. When we know what they are up to, we will know how to stop them."
"You think we can?"
"Certainly! Can women force us to the polls, or compel us to vote for this silly measure? Besides, the state constitution is a perfect protection; only males can vote. This is all a form of feminine hysteria, Stacey; it's bound to pass. Just sit tight in the boat and wait. I don't mind telling you that the trustees of this—d—er—this Foundation are spending their income like water. When that gives out, they'll be at the end of their tether. They can't touch the principal."
"But they might borrow on it," Stacey put in doubtfully as he arose to take his departure.
This was a devilish possibility of which Coleman had not thought. He was angry with Stacey for suggesting it.
"Damphule to leave the church with Susan Walton in it!" he grumbled as he went upstairs.
Agatha was already in bed. She lay with her hands crossed above the coverlid, her eyes closed, her face resting upon the pillow as serene as the epitaph of a good woman on a large white tombstone.
He undressed stealthily. He would no more have disturbed her than he would have thrust a thorn in his side. He turned out the light and lay down beside her, scarcely allowing himself the relief of a sigh.
Instantly Agatha's eyes flew open. She lay very still watching him. She could make out his nose in the dark. It was a powerfully built, upstanding nose which even the shadows of the night did not entirely conceal. Slowly she divined his features one by one. A man, even the ablest, looks very helpless in his sleep. She saw his chin drop, his mouth open. Then the silence was parted by a certain sound, exactly the same sound she had heard every night since she had married—"Ha-a-w-s-ah! Ah-ha-a-w-sah." It was a cross between the bray of an ass and the excruciating grief of a cat.