“You know I’m a politician, and want to become popular.”
“Oh, Peter! Will you let me ask you something?”
“Anything,” said Peter, rashly, though speaking the absolute truth. Peter just then was willing to promise anything. Perhaps it was the warm cup of tea; perhaps it was the blazing logs; perhaps it was the shade of the lamp, which cast such a pleasant rosy tint over everything; perhaps it was the comfortable chair; perhaps it was that charming face; perhaps it was what Mr. Mantalini called the “demd total.”
“You see,” said Leonore, shaking her head in a puzzled way, “I’ve begun to read the papers—the political part, I mean—and there are so many things I don’t understand which I want to ask you to explain.”
“That is very nice,” said Peter, “because there are a great many things of which I want to tell you.”
“Goody!” said Leonore, forgetting again she was now bound to conduct herself as befit a society girl. “And you’ll not laugh at me if I ask foolish questions?”
“No.”
“Then what do the papers mean by calling you a boss?”
“That I am supposed to have sufficient political power to dictate to a certain extent.”
“But don’t they speak of a boss as something not nice?” asked Leonore, a little timidly, as if afraid of hurting Peter’s feelings.