"Don't you feel chilly, George?" she asked. "You can't be too careful with that throat."
She knelt down by his chair, put the scarf over his head, brought it down past his cheeks, tied it loosely under his chin, and threw the ends back over his shoulders.
"Now, lean back. Isn't that better? Mr. Norman has a severe cold," she said in the general direction of Thompson. "The doctor is afraid of bronchitis," she added, as she rose and drew the shades. "That light is getting too bright for your eyes."
She flashed a glance at Aunt Mary and returned to the bedroom.
Merriam had been feeling that it was only a matter of minutes before Thompson--whoever Thompson might be--would somehow force his way to his side and look down into his face and, probably, perceive the imposture as Mayor Black had done. But now, with the welcome aid of the scarf, he had the bravado to turn partly in his chair and say throatily:
"What do you want?"
Thompson had remained a gaping spectator of the tying up of Merriam's head, but this question enabled him to recover his natural aggressiveness. With one defiant glance at Aunt Mary, he started forward and pushed his way past Simpson, who could have stopped him only by an actual physical offensive.
"What do I want?" he repeated sarcastically, as he stood looking down on the senatorial head bundled in the scarf. "I want to know what the hell you've gone and done--you and Black--without letting anybody know you were going to! What about Crockett? Didn't you promise him at eight o'clock last night that you would tell Black to veto? And then this!"
Thompson had drawn a folded newspaper from his coat pocket. He struck it with his other hand.
"Is that the way to treat your friends who've stuck by you? What about the election next week? What about the state machine? What about your campaign fund? Have you gone nutty? Did you really do it, or is the Mayor lying? That's what I want to know!"