CHAPTER XV
As the train slowed for the station, and a score of other passengers began to assemble wraps and luggage, Mr. Theodore Mix sat calm and undisturbed, although inwardly he was still raging at Mirabelle for making a spectacle of him. It was fully half an hour ago that she had prodded him into activity, ignored his plea of greater experience in ways of travel, and compelled him to get the suitcases out to the platform (she didn’t trust the porter), to help her on with her cape, and to be in instant readiness for departure. For half an hour she had sat bolt upright on the edge of her seat, an umbrella in one hand and an antique satchel in the other, and her air was a public proclamation that no railroad, soulless corporation though it might be, was going to carry her one inch beyond her destination.
By a superhuman effort, Mr. Mix removed his eyes from Mirabelle’s convention badge. It 270 was a chaste decoration of three metal bars, two sets of supporting chains, and a half foot of blue silk ribbon, with white lettering, and Mirabelle continued to wear it for two reasons: she was proud of it, and Mr. Mix had made his initial attempt to be masterful, and told her twenty-four hours ago that it looked as though she belonged to the Third Ward Chowder Club. Since then, she had reproached him afresh whenever she caught him looking at it. And inasmuch as it could hardly be avoided by anyone who cast the briefest glance in her general direction, he had been in hot water from Chicago to the present moment. He couldn’t even escape to the smoking room.
When a man is telling himself that a woman has made a fool of him in public, and that every one in the neighborhood is amused to watch him, he finds it peculiarly difficult to carry on a conversation with the woman. But Mr. Mix saw that Mirabelle was about to converse, and glowering at a drummer across the aisle, he beat her to it.
“Seems to me the League had an almighty gall to wire you for that three thousand dollars, 271 Mirabelle. If it had been my money, I’d have hung on to it until I knew what they wanted it for.”
She straightened her lips. “Well, it wasn’t, was it?––So I didn’t, did I?... If I can’t have faith in my own associates, who can I have it in? And it isn’t a gift; it’s a loan. Treasurer said he needed it right off, and there wasn’t anybody else to get it from in a hurry.” She caught his eyes wandering towards her gorgeous insignia, and her own eyes snapped back at him. “And I hope at least I’m to have the privilege of doing what I choose with my own money. Don’t forget that women are people, now, just as much as men are. After the first of August, maybe I’ll––”
“Mirabelle. Sh-h!”
“No, I won’t either,” she retorted. “I don’t care to shush. After the first of August, maybe you’ll have your share, and I won’t presume to interfere with you. So don’t you interfere with me. If the League had to have money, it was for some proper purpose. And it wasn’t a gift; it was a loan. And if I couldn’t trust––”