“Quite a good sort, that girl! Pity she isn’t a man!”
He voiced this latter sentiment to Azalea one evening shortly before prorogation and his return for the summer to Pinto Plains. In their sharp and peppery fashion, they had been discussing the Budget, inflated, Azalea contended, beyond all reason by the conscienceless demands of those picaresque buccaneers, Eastlake and Donahue, whose issue of private enterprise was begotten in the womb of the public treasury, when Dilling turned to her and cried,
“You’ve made out a good case, Miss Deane! You should have been a man!”
The girl’s cheeks burned a painful brick tint. But she laughed and retorted,
“By which you tactfully imply my unsuitability for the state to which it has pleased God to call me, and regret that physical limitations prevent my choosing a more adequate sphere. I confess to you in strict confidence, that frequently, I have deplored this condition, myself.”
“Come along into politics,” invited Dilling, a touch of seriousness behind his banter.
“Right-o! Just so soon as you amend the B.N.A. and offer me a refuge in the Senate,” she answered, and changed the subject.
Later that night, Marjorie hinted that he had hurt Azalea.
“Eh?” cried Dilling. “What are you talking about? Hurt her—how?”
“By what you said.”