Suddenly he smiled at her.
“Incurable romanticist,” he said, and went out again.
At twelve o’clock things were in utter confusion—at one o’clock it was clear as daylight. If Johnson had not won he had so nearly done so that only a trick of luck would defeat him. His chances were good.
At half past one he looked secure and the office was slowly emptying. The telephone calls had nearly ceased. The last of the politicians departed, hoping to get a bit of stray news at the city hall and promising to telephone it as soon as possible. Horatia still sat at Langley’s desk—her head on her hand—her cloak thrown back—dreaming of what this might mean and mixing her dreams with a hundred irrelevancies.
“Well,” said Langley, “we’ve won, I think.” His voice was very quiet and yet there was a new sureness in it.
Horatia got up a little wearily, dragging her cloak.
“I have never been so glad of anything,” she answered.
He came behind her to lift the wrap and put it about her shoulders.
“I must take you home.”
It was very quiet. All the excitement seemed to have given way to stupor. In the hazy office they spoke slowly and Horatia felt vaguely unreal.