"You are younger than ever," Jane said when they had clasped hands. "Will you ever grow old, O-liver?"
"The men say not." He seated himself opposite her. "Jane, Jane, it's heavenly to see you. I've been—starved!"
She had hungered and thirsted for him. Her hand shook a little as she poured him a cup of coffee.
"I told you not to come, O-liver."
He laid the telegram before her. Fluffy Hair was dead!
The yellow sheet lay between, defying them to speak so soon of happiness.
"To-morrow," O-liver said, "I go to Washington. When will you come to me, Jane?"
Her hand went out to him. Her breath was quick. "In time to hear your first speech, O-liver. I'll sit in the gallery, and lean over and listen and say to myself, 'He's mine, he's mine!'"
She heard many speeches in the months that followed, and sometimes Tommy or Atwood or Henry, traveling across the continent, came and sat beside her. And Atwood always clung to his prophecy: "He'll be governor next; and then it'll be the White House. Why not?"
And Jane, dreaming, asked herself "Why?"