“A month. We are staying with papa, till the house in Fifty-seventh Street can be put in order. It has been closed since Mrs. D’Alloi’s death. But don’t let’s talk houses. Tell me about yourself.”
“There is little to tell. I have worked at my profession, with success.”
“But I see your name in politics. And I’ve met many people in Europe who have said you were getting very famous.”
“I spend a good deal of time in politics. I cannot say whether I have made myself famous, or infamous. It seems to depend on which paper I read.”
“Yes, I saw a paper on the steamer, that—” Mrs. D’Alloi hesitated, remembering that it had charged Peter with about every known sin of which man is capable. Then she continued, “But I knew it was wrong.” Yet there was quite as much of question as of assertion in her remark. In truth, Mrs. D’Alloi was by no means sure that Peter was all that was desirable, for any charge made against a politician in this country has a peculiar vitality and persistence. She had been told that Peter was an open supporter of saloons, and that New York politics battened on all forms of vice. So a favorite son could hardly have retained the purity that women take as a standard of measurement. “Don’t you find ward politics very hard?” she asked, dropping an experimental plummet, to see what depths of iniquity there might be.
“I haven’t yet.”
“But that kind of politics must be very disagreeable to gentlemen. The men must have such dirty hands!”
“It’s not the dirty hands which make American politics disagreeable. It’s the dirty consciences.”
“Are—are politics so corrupt and immoral?”
“Politics are what the people make them.”