Judge Barklay, of course, had taken the revelation like a man. Like a philosopher. He was fond of Henry personally; he had objected to him purely for the obvious reasons. He agreed, however, with Mr. Starkweather––marriage might awaken Henry to complete responsibility. Indeed he had Mr. Starkweather’s guaranty of it. To be sure a secret marriage was somewhat sensational, somewhat indecorous––
“Humph!” Mirabelle had interrupted. “I don’t know who’s insulted most––you or us. Still I suppose you’ve got one consolation––and that’s if two young fools marry each other instead of somebody else it only leaves just the two of ’em to repent at leisure instead of four.”
Mr. Starkweather recalled, with chagrin, his own and the Judge’s futile attempts at tact. Mirabelle was tact-proof; you might as well try subtle diplomacy on a locomotive. He took 39 another deep breath, and gazed abstractedly out over the roof-tops. He wished that Henry would write. Henry had his defects, but the house was not quite livable without him. Mr. Starkweather was swept by an emotion which took him wholly by surprise and almost overcame him; he sat up, and began to wonder where he could find some occupation which would chink up the crevices in his thoughts, and prevent him from introspection. Eventually he hit upon it, and with a conscious effort, he pulled himself out of his chair, and went over to Masonic Hall to meet his sister Mirabelle.
She had been attending a conference of the Ethical Reform League, and as Mr. Starkweather’s car drew in to the curb, the reformers were just emerging to the sidewalk. He surveyed them, disparagingly. First, there was a vanguard of middle-aged women, remarkably short of waist and long of skirt, who looked as though they had stepped directly from the files of Godey’s Lady’s Book; he recognized a few of them, and judged the others accordingly––these were the militants, the infantry, who bore the brunt of the fighting. Next, there was a 40 group of younger women, and of young men––the men, almost without exception, wore spectacles and white washable ties. These were the skirmishers and the reserves. At one side, there was a little delegation in frock-coats and silk hats, and as Mr. Starkweather beheld them, he lifted his eyebrows; some of those older men he hadn’t seen in public for a dozen years––he had forgotten that they were alive. But the majority of them were retired or retiring capitalists; men who in their day, had managed important interests, and even now controlled them. Mr. Starkweather reflected that life must have become very insipid to them; and he further reflected that their place in this organization must be as shock-troops. They would seldom go into action, but when they did, they had the power of consequence to give them an added momentum.
His sister caught sight of him, and waved her hand in greeting; and this astonished him all the more, because since Henry’s departure, she had behaved towards him as though his character needed a bath.
Mr. Starkweather made room for her. 41 “Thought I’d give you a lift back to the house,” he said.
There was an unusual colour in her cheeks, and her eyes were brilliant. “John, do you know what I am?”
Mr. Starkweather didn’t dare to hesitate. “No. What?”
“I’m the––president,” she said, and her voice was trembling with pride and bewilderment.
“President? Of the League?”