“To send a telegram.”
“I will call John.”
“No, I am going to see Secretary ——.”
He folded the letter and put it into his pocket. At the mention of the name, the light sprang into her eyes—the light of contest. She knew that it would be a crucial interview, and that her husband’s future would depend on it.
“Shall I ring for the carriage?”
“No, I will walk. I want to cool myself off a little.” He stopped as he reached the door. “He was the first gentleman of our class,” he said. He went out.
A half-hour later, Senator Rockfield was admitted to the study or private office of the Secretary who had the direction of matters affecting the South and who controlled everything which related to it.
He was a man of iron constitution, a tremendous worker, and his study at his home was only a private apartment of his office in the great Government building in which he presided. His ambition was to preside in a greater building, over the whole Government. He gave his life to it. Every other consideration was subordinated. It was a proof of the Senator’s influence that he was admitted to see him at that hour. And at the instant he appeared the Secretary was busy writing a momentous document. As the Senator entered, however, he shot a swift, keen glance at him, and his face lit up. He took his appearance at that hour as a proof that he had yielded, or, at least, was yielding.
“Ah! Senator. Glad to see you,” he said, with a smile which he could make gracious. “I was just thinking of you. I hope I may consider your visit a token of peace; that you recognize the wisdom of our position.”
He was speaking lightly, but the Senator did not respond in the same vein. His face did not relax.