“Why, what’s so remarkable about these?”
“Well, that one on Local Problems isn’t so bad, but you know, Mix, when you come out in print and tell us that sooner or later you’re going to stop the manufacture and sale of playing-cards, and––”
“What?”
“And stop all public dancing, and––”
Mr. Mix looked moonstruck. “Who ever said that?”
“And hand us out sumptuary laws––regulate the length of women’s skirts and––”
Mr. Mix caught his breath sharply. “Where’s that? Where is it? Show it to me! Show it to me!”
Obligingly, the member showed him; and as Mr. Mix stared at the pages, one by one, the veins in his cheeks grew purple. Mirabelle had edited his manuscript,––thank Heaven she hadn’t tampered with the Mix amendment of the blue-law ordinance, which Mr. Mix had so carefully phrased to checkmate Henry, without at the same time seeming to do more than provide 251 conservative Sunday regulation,––but in the other articles Mirabelle had shovelled in a wealth of her own precious thoughts, clad in her own bleak style, and as soon as he had read two consecutive paragraphs, Mr. Mix knew that the worst wasn’t yet to come––it had arrived.
The other man was amusedly calm. “Well, you’re not going to deny you wrote it, are you? Too bad, in a way, though. Oh, I don’t blame you for getting it off your chest, if you really mean it––a man might as well come out in the open––but I’m afraid too many people’ll think it just funny.”
Mr. Mix produced a smile which was a sickly attempt to register nonchalant poise. “What do you hear about it?”