"I'll tell you what you're thinking," he said quietly. "You are thinking that I have fallen short of your notion of me. You listened the other night at the court-house and thought kindly things. Then you were told by my enemies that I had used in part what was not my own. You were vexed, for it impeached your judgment of character. Then I failed of my appointment, and did you a more grievous wrong—I piqued your woman's vanity."
Ruth gasped.
"Your effrontery is—is fascinating."
Shelby's eyes hinted a smile. She had said what she thought.
"I shall not defend myself to you against the charges of the Whig," he went on. "I doubt even if I shall answer them publicly. Greater men than I have had their names blackened in a campaign, and deemed silence the wisest answer. People don't ascribe many virtues to the politician, but even he occasionally turns the other cheek. As for my tardiness to-day—well, I could have avoided it."
"You admit it?" blazed Ruth.
"Yes. I had my choice."
"And you chose—" The shabby figure she had seen descend from Shelby's office visualized itself sharply.
"Yes—poor devil—I chose Kiska."
Her mood veered, and she whirled impulsively toward him, all womanliness and contrition.