“I saw your father,” he began.
“Yes,” she interrupted. “He has written me.”
“Does he consent?”
“Yes and no.” She hesitated. “He asked me not to tell, but I know I can trust you. He has been planning to be nominated for Vice-President. And he has found that he can’t have the nomination if I marry a titled foreigner—especially an Englishman, because of the Irish. They say it would kill the ticket.”
Frothingham retreated behind a vacant look.
“He found it out only a few days ago.” She did not feel equal to telling him that her father had learned this fatal fact through the exposure of Rontivogli. “So,” she ended, “we couldn’t marry until after the election. For he says he’s sure of the nomination.”
“And when is this election?”
“A year from next fall.”
Fortunately Frothingham had not the habit of letting his face speak for him. After a pause he said: “But surely you can persuade him.”
“It’s useless to try. You don’t know him as I do. He seems yielding, and usually he is. But where he’s set he’s hard as granite.”