“I think not. I’m tired. I’ll go up, I think,” said Kitty, and they left the room together.
Mr. Fenelby gathered his papers and his book together and pushed them wearily into the desk. Then he dropped into a chair and looked sadly at the floor.
“Tom,” said Laura, “can’t we stop the tariff anyway?”
“Oh, no!” said her husband disconsolately. “We can’t do anything. We’ve got to go ahead with the foolishness until Kitty and Billy go. They would laugh at us and crow over us all their lives if we didn’t. Especially after the fool I have made of myself with this voting nonsense,” he added bitterly.
Mrs. Fenelby sighed.
XI
THE COUP D’ÉTAT
The next morning dawned gloomily. The sky was a dull gray, and a sickening drizzle was falling, mixed with a thick fog that made everything and everybody soggy and damp. It was a most dismal and disheartening Sunday, without a ray of cheerfulness in it, and Mr. and Mrs. Fenelby felt the burden of the day keenly. The house had the usual Sunday morning air of untidiness. It was a bad day on which to take up the load of the tariff and carry it through twelve hours of servantless housekeeping.