“The missionary fund,” said Mr. Mix, “seems to have fallen among cannibals. Save your energy, my dear. This isn’t reform; it’s elementary politics, and Rowland’s used the steam-roller. As a matter of fact, we’re stronger than we were before. If they’d passed my amendment, a lot of voters might have said it wouldn’t do any good to elect me Mayor; when all my best work was done beforehand. Now I’ve got a real platform to fight on. And the League’ll have a real fund, won’t it? You put up forty or fifty thousand, and we’ll stage a Waterloo.”
“And you can stand there and––oh, you coward!”
He shook his head, with new dignity. “No, you’re simply lucky Rowland didn’t think of it a year ago. If he had, and––” Mr. Mix broke off the sentence, and turned pale.
“What’s the matter, Theodore?”
Mr. Mix slumped down as though hit from behind. “Mirabelle––listen––” His voice was strained, and hoarse. “I may have to have some money today––four or five thousand––”
“I haven’t got it.”
He stared at her until she backed away in awe. “You––you haven’t got––four or five thousand––?”
Mirabelle began to whimper. “I’ve been so sure of––of August, you know––I’ve spent all Mr. Archer sent me. I––”
As he stepped forward, Mirabelle retreated. “You’ve got something of your own, though?” It wasn’t an ordinary question, it was an agonized appeal.