There was a silence; then Betty said, not without sheepishness, "Frank's all right."
Marcella smiled. She knew that little Betty had been much troubled by Frank's tempers of late, and had been haunted by some quite serious qualms about his loyalty to Maxwell and the Bill. Marcella had never shared them. Frank Leven had not grit enough to make a scandal and desert a chief. But Betty's ambition had forced the boy into a life that was not his; had divided him from the streams and fields, from the country gentleman's duties and pleasures, that were his natural sphere. In this hot town game of politics, this contest of brains and ambitions, he was out of place—was, in fact, wasting both time and capacity. Betty would have to give way, or the comedy of a lovers' quarrel might grow to something ill-matched with the young grace and mirth of such a pair of handsome children.
Marcella meant to tell her friend all this in due time. Now she could only wait in silence, listening for every sound, Betty's soft fingers clasping her own, the wind as it blew from the bridge cooling her hot brow.
"Here they are!" said Betty.
They turned to the open doorway of the House. A rush of feet and voices approached, and the various groups on the Terrace hurried to meet it.
"Just saved! By George, what a squeak!" said a man's voice in the distance; and at the same moment Maxwell touched his wife on the shoulder.
"A majority of ten! Nobody knew how it had gone till the last moment."
She put up her face to him, leaning against him.
"I suppose it means we can't pull through?" He bent to her.
"I should think so. Darling, don't take it to heart so much!"