Mr. Mix shook his head. “Perfect the organization first, and begin to fight when we’ve got all our ammunition. It’ll take me three months to get that ready. So far, all we’ve had is a battle, but now we’re planning a war. I want to be prepared in every detail before we fire a single more shot.”
She regarded him admiringly. “Sounds reasonable at that. You do it your own way.”
He was feeling a warm sense of power, and yet he had his moments of uncertainty, did Mr. 165 Mix, for even with his genius for hypocrisy, he sometimes found it difficult to be a hypocrite on both sides of the same proposition. His status was satisfactory, at the moment, but he mustn’t let Mirabelle get the bit in her teeth, and run away with him. As soon as ever she got him on record as favouring the sort of legislation which she herself wanted, Mr. Mix’s power was going to dwindle. And Mr. Mix adored his power, and he hated to think of losing it by too extravagant propaganda.
There were moments when he wished that Henry were more belligerent, so that special measures could be taken against him, or that Mirabelle were more seductive, so that Mr. Mix could be more spontaneous. He knew that he was personally responsible for the present enforcement; he believed that because of it, Henry Devereux didn’t have a Chinaman’s chance; he knew that if Mirabelle got her legacy, she would have Mr. Mix to thank for it. But Henry was too cheerful, and Mirabelle was too coy, and the two facts didn’t co-ordinate.
Certainly there was no finesse in hailing Mirabelle as an heiress until Henry’s failure 166 was more definitely placarded. To be sure, she had plenty of money now, and she was spending it like water, but he knew that it included the income from the whole Starkweather estate. She probably had––oh, a hundred thousand or more of her own. And that wasn’t enough. Yes, it was time for Mr. Mix to think ahead; he had identified himself so thoroughly with the League that he couldn’t easily withdraw, and Mirabelle still held his note. Of course, if the League could furnish him with a stepping-stone to the Mayoralty, or the presidency of Council, Mr. Mix didn’t care to withdraw from it anyway; nor would he falter in his allegiance as long as he had a chance at an heiress. He wished that Henry would show fight, but Henry hadn’t even joined the Exhibitors Association. It was so much easier to fight when the other fellow offered resistance. Henry merely smiled; you couldn’t tell whether he were despondent or not. But if he wouldn’t fight, there was always the thin possibility that he might be satisfied with his progress. And that would be unfortunate for Mr. Mix.
There was something else; suppose Mirabelle got her legacy, and Mr. Mix volunteered to share it with her. He was reasonably confident that she would consent; her symptoms were already on the surface. But how, in such event, could Mr. Mix regulate the habits which were so precious to him? How could he hide his fondness for his cigar, and his night-cap, his predilection for burlesque shows and boxing bouts and blonde stenographers? It was difficult enough, even now, and he had eaten enough trochees and coffee beans to sink a frigate, and he had been able only once to get away to New York––“to clean up his affairs.” How could he manage his alternative self when Mirabelle had him under constant and intimate supervision?
Still, all that could be arranged. For twenty years he had gone to New York, regularly, on irregular business and not a soul in town was any the wiser; it was simply necessary to discover what “business” could summon him if he were married, independent, and a professional reformer. Mr. Mix, who was always a few 168 lengths ahead of the calendar, procured the addresses of a metropolitan anti-cigarette conference, and a watch-and-ward society, and humbly applied by mail for membership. An alibi is exactly the opposite of an egg; the older it is, the better.