"And now let's have no pretenses," continued Gimbel, on the same line, with a quick analytical glance. "You're going with your crowd; better join one of their eating-joints."
Stover was genuinely surprised.
"Have you already arranged it?" said Gimbel, laughing.
"Gimbel," said Stover directly, "I'm not quite sure about you."
"You don't know whether I'm a faker or not."
"Exactly."
"Stover, I'm a politician," said Gimbel frankly. "I'm out for a big fight. I know the game here. I wouldn't talk to every one as I talk to you. I want you to understand me—more, I want you to like me. And I feel with you that the only way is to be absolutely honest. You see, I'm a politician," he said, with a laugh. "I've learned how to meet different men. Sometime I'm going to talk over things with you—seriously. Here we are now. I've got a bunch of fellows to see. McCarthy's probably looking for you. Don't make up your mind in a hurry about me—or about a good many things here. Ta-ta!"
Stover watched him go gaily into the crowd, distributing bluff, vociferous welcomes, hilariously acclaimed. The man was new, represented a new element, a strange, dimly perceived, rebellious mass, with ideas that intruded themselves ungratefully on his waking vision.
"Is he sincere?" he said to himself—a question that he was to apply a hundred times in the life that was beginning.