“Oh, what I said. Say Mix, do you honestly mean all that blood-and-thunder?”
Mr. Mix smiled again, and hoped that his expression was taken to be non-committal. To save his life, he couldn’t have helped looking towards the corner where Henry and Judge Barklay sat, and his fury and chagrin were multiplied when he saw that they were still affected by humour.
He went out, with vast dignity––even the doorman had a twinkle in his eye––and made for Masonic Hall. Mirabelle was there, in the committee room, and at sight of him, she had a temporary fit of maidenly diffidence. He wanted to slap her; but he didn’t even dare to use a tone of voice which was more than disapproving.
“Those pamphlets––” he began, censoriously.
“Oh, yes, Theodore, I took the liberty of making a few slight changes.”
“Slight changes! Sleight of hand changes!”
Mirabelle drew herself up. “Do you mean to say you criticise what I did? I couldn’t see the sense of being milk-and-watery, even if you could. All I put in was what you’ve said to me a hundred times over. We’ve wasted too much time already. I thought we’d better show our true colours.”
Mr. Mix stood and gaped at her. Underground politician that he was, he knew that Mirabelle had utterly destroyed the half of his ambition. She had made him a laughing-stock, a buffoon, a political joke. To think that his 253 name was connected with a crusade against short-skirts and dancing––Ugh! Not even the average run of church-goers would swallow it. “Mayor!” he thought bitterly. “President of Council! I couldn’t get elected second deputy assistant dog-catcher!”
Aloud, he said slowly: “I’m afraid it was premature, that’s all.”