She pushed her Socratic pitfall a step farther.
"When you say run so-and-so, he runs, doesn't he?"
Bowers permitted himself a dry smile in the dark.
"Most generally."
"Then you're responsible," she argued triumphantly. "You got Ross Shelby into politics; you've run him for this and that; he's your charge."
The Hon. Seneca Bowers turned his disgusted face to the wall.
"So you've the Sunday-school idea of politics," he threw over his shoulder with heavy sarcasm. "I'm to teach a Bible class and pass out dinkey little reward-of-merit cards to the prize pupils! Bah!"
His wife presently fetched her outdoor wraps and adjusted them before a mirror in the dimly lit hall.
"I'm going to take a tumbler of jelly to poor lonely Mrs. Weatherwax," she announced from the door.
Bowers roused suddenly.