"Let's hope so! You know, Jimmy, he's said to be in pretty strong with the political crowd, both here and upstate. He's no giant himself, I gather, but he's in with the big ones. Wasn't there some story about his having such a strong pull that he once landed a prominent banker in the penitentiary—just because the poor man differed with him?"
"I don't know," murmured Wren. "Never heard it. Henry C. is a poor pill, himself."
"Never underestimate an enemy, particularly in New York, Jimmy—but there! All this is silly. You'll win out, of course, and when I come home we'll celebrate the victory. Shall we?"
"You've said something!" declared Jimmy promptly. "Where? Sherry's new place?"
"Anywhere you say." Mrs. Fowler rose. "Now, my dear man, I'm frightfully sorry to send you away—but I'll look forward to seeing you again. It was delightful of you to devote your Christmas evening to a poor lonely—"
"To a goddess, you mean," struck in Jimmy, as he rose and took her hand in his. Their eyes met and held, and something that he read in those hazel depths brought the color to Wren's cheeks.
"Good-by, and come home soon," he said unsteadily, "and don't forget our celebration. Oh, I do wish you weren't going! Won't you change your mind and stay?"
"I can't." Her fingers tightened on his. "But I wish you luck and success, dear Jimmy! And it's Christmas night—"
She leaned forward and kissed him, frankly—and Jimmy Wren departed with a lilt of song in his heart and a shining gladness in his eyes.
Mrs. Fowler went to the telephone in her boudoir, sat down, and called a number.