Andy Galpin looked intently at Mrs. Jeremy Robson. “Maybe I’m wrong,” he said meekly. “You think it is n’t over?”
The little, tawny head was shaken emphatically.
“I think that we shall have it all to fight again,” she said, in her unchanged, precise, and subtly caressing manner of speech.
“When?” The chief and the general manager challenged her with one voice.
“When Germany’s peace offer is made. Then you will see Governor Embree and all that is left of Germany here making their fight for a peace which will be worse than war. That is why I will not listen to Jem’s giving up the paper.”
“What do you think of that, Andy?” asked Jem.
The general manager smiled his slow, homely, friendly smile at Marcia Robson. “I think what I’ve thought since the first minute I set eyes on her,” he said: “that she’s a wise guy. Boss, we haven’t won this war over here until we’ve won this war over there, and don’t you forget it! By the way, there’s quite a little talk in Washington, Kimball tells me, about the new Senator-elect from Centralia.”
“I blush, modestly and prettily,” retorted Jem. “Or—Marcia, you do it for me. I’d rather stay here and run the old Guardian.”
“I’d rather have you,” returned Andy, with rueful emphasis.
“We shall be back for the fight that is coming,” promised Marcia.