Peter had a good night. Perhaps it was only because he was sleepy, but a pleasant speech is not a bad night-cap. At least it is better than a mental question-mark as to whether one has done wrong. Peter did not know how it was coming out, but he thought he had done right, and need not spend time on a blank wall that evening.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE CONVENTION.
Though Peter had not gone to bed so early as he hoped, he was up the next morning, and had tramped his eight miles through and around Saratoga, before the place gave many evidences of life. He ended his tramp at the Congress spring, and tasted the famous water, with exceeding disgust at the result. As he set down his half-finished tumbler, and turned to leave, he found Miss De Voe at his elbow, about to take her morning glass.
“This is a very pleasant surprise,” she said, holding out her hand. “When did you arrive?”
“I only came last night.”
“And how long shall you be here?”
“I cannot say. I am attending the convention, and my stay will depend on that.”
“Surely you are not a Democrat?” said Miss De Voe, a shade of horror showing itself in her face, in spite of her good breeding. In those days it was not, to put it mildly, a guarantee of respectability to belong to that party, and Miss De Voe had the strong prejudices of her social station, all the more because she was absolutely ignorant of political events.
Peter said he was.