Something in his tone at last warned Berkman, and he colored deeply with embarrassment. Certain vague rumors took shape in his mind and he remembered suddenly Margaret’s mood after they had left Fox and Rose together in Rock Creek Park. He reached over and took a cigarette from the box on the table and lighted it to hide his confusion.
“I believe you’re right,” he said, with assumed lightness of tone; “the Cabinet isn’t as brilliant an opportunity as the House. At any rate I congratulate you, my dear fellow, and I wish you all success.”
Fox thanked him dryly and asked a few desultory questions about Berkman’s trip and his new book which was in press.
“It will be out in about ten days,” the author said calmly, “and then my friends will make a business of sending me all the adverse criticisms. If I didn’t like to see the favorable ones occasionally I shouldn’t need to employ clipping bureaus. I’m hanged if I see the point of view which makes it a duty to be disagreeable!”
Fox laughed. “My dear fellow, our friends never realize us. I remember the first speech I ever made at the primaries; I was a little flushed with success; I’d had some applause, but suddenly I heard a voice, the sharp high voice of my childhood’s neighbor, an old Methodist deacon, and it said: ‘Well, I’m beat if it ain’t Billy Fox makin’ a speech, an’ the last time I saw him I was mighty nigh givin’ him a lickin’ for fishin’ on Sunday in my pool!’ By heavens,” Fox added with sudden bitterness, “I wish I were fishing there now; how cool and deep the shadows were!”
“Trout, of course?” said Berkman sympathetically.
Fox nodded. “Big ones; there was a willow behind the pool; we cut our whistles there and hid there when we saw old man Siddons coming. Lord, Berkman, how the past slips away!”
“You ought to go back there now,” said the author abruptly, as he rose; “I never saw you so pale; have you been ill?”
“Never better; you know that like Prosper Merimée I am naturally of the color of the pale horse in the Apocalypse.”
“Ah, well,” said Berkman, knocking the ashes from his cigarette, “I don’t envy you public life; it’s a harness, Fox, and a pretty tight harness too, I fancy.”