Election Sunday came at last. I knew it by the multicoloured posters which decorated the fronts of buildings and the greater affluence of those that I had to wade through on the way to the School Mass. At the house no one had made the slightest allusion to it. After the spiritless luncheon grandfather put on his hat and grasped his cane.
“Where are you going?” asked Aunt Deen.
“Into the country.”
“You have voted already?”
“Indeed I have not.”
“It’s a duty.”
“That’s all the same to me.”
“After all, so much the better,” my aunt added; “you would have been capable of voting for those scoundrels.”
She deemed it useless to designate them more definitely.
He had almost “solicited the suffrages of voters,” to quote from the posters, and he didn’t even vote. He chose for himself and I could see no reason to object. Every one had a right to do as he chose and to change as he fancied,—otherwise what would become of liberty? As he was going out he suddenly turned to me and proposed that I should go with him.