“I do. I want you to talk to them and charm them. I can organize. Mrs. Brownley can give them Republican gospel. What I want you to do is to give them a little of the charm of being a Republican. Borrow some of Gage’s arguments and use your own manner in giving them and the result will be what I want.”
“Don’t I seem rather superfluous?”
“We couldn’t do it without you. Mrs. Brownley for name—you for charm—and I’ll do the rest of the work.”
Helen looked at her watch.
“Gage will beat me,” she declared, “I’m late for dinner again.”
II
The train bumped along for several hours. Mrs. Brownley read, her book adjusted at a proper distance from her leveled eye-glasses. Helen and Margaret fell into one of those interminable conversations on what was worth while a woman’s doing. They were unexcited, but at Mohawk, Mrs. Thorstad arrived thirty minutes early at the railroad station, with Mrs. Watson’s car, which she had commandeered. Mrs. Watson had also offered lunch but at the last minute her Hilda had become sick and thrown her into such confusion that Mrs. Thorstad, brightly rising to the occasion, had taken lunch upon herself and even now Freda was putting a pan of scalloped potatoes into the oven and anxiously testing the baking ham.
It had fallen naturally to Mrs. Thorstad to arrange the meeting in Mohawk, Mrs. Brownley writing her that she need not consider it a partisan meeting, that its object was merely educative, to explain to the women what the Republican party meant. And Mrs. Thorstad had few scruples about using her influence to get as large a group together for the meeting as she could. To have these three celebrities for a whole day had been a matter of absorbing thought to her. They were to have a luncheon at her home, then to have an afternoon meeting at the Library and a further meeting in the evening. Mrs. Thorstad knew she could get a crowd out. She always could.
Freda had not minded getting lunch. She didn’t mind cooking, especially when they could lay themselves out in expense as was considered proper to-day. But she hated meeting these strange, serious-minded women. She had looked in the glass at herself and decided several times that she was altogether out of place. She had tried to bribe her mother into pretending she was a servant. But that was in vain. So Freda had put on the black taffeta dress which she had made from a Vogue pattern and was hoping they had missed their train.
Coming to the kitchen door her mother called her and she went in reluctantly. Then she saw Helen and her face lit up with interest. Her mother had said Mrs. Flandon was nice looking but she had pictured some earnest looking youngish woman. This—this picture of soft gray fur and dull gold hair! She was like a magazine cover. She was what Freda had thought existed but what she couldn’t prove. And it was proven.