“Politics brought you here, I suppose, Mr. Trent,” interrupted Miss Decker. “I hear you made a stirring speech the other night.”
“I did. It was on the question of Radicalism in the Press versus Civil Service Reform. Something must be done to revolutionise this hotbed of iniquity, American politics. Such principles need courage, but when the hour comes the man must not be wanting—”
“That was all in the paper next morning,” drawled Boswell. “Mrs. Pendleton, did you receive the copy of my new book I sent a fortnight ago? Unlike many of my others, I had no difficulty in disposing of it. It was lighter, brighter, less philosophy, less—brains. The critics understood it, therefore they were kind. They even said—”
“Don’t quote the critics, for Heaven’s sake,” said Severance. “It is enough to have read them.”
“Oh, Mrs. Pendleton,” exclaimed Teddy, “if you could have been at the yacht race! Such excitement, such—”
“To change the subject,” said Trent, with determination in his eye, “Mrs. Pendleton, did you receive all the marked papers I sent you containing my speeches, especially the one on Jesuitism in Politics?”
“Don’t bother Mrs. Pendleton with politics!” exclaimed Boswell, whose own egotism was kicking against its bars. “You did not think my book too long, did you? One purblind critic said—”
“Good night, Mrs. Pendleton,” said Severance, rising abruptly. “Good evening,” and he bowed to Miss Decker and to the men. Jessica rose suddenly and went with him to the door.
“I am going to walk on the cliffs—‘Forty Steps’—at eleven to-morrow,” she said, as she gave him her hand. “This may be unconventional, but I choose to do it.”
He bowed over her hand. “Mrs. Pendleton will only have set one more fashion,” he said. “I shall be there.”