"Oh yes!" she said vivaciously. "I think I can. It's a Voiceless Speech."
"A voice l—" George's own face was a voiceless speech as he repeated two syllables of his stenographer's explanation.
"Yes. Don't you know about voiceless speeches? It's antiquated to try to run any sort of a campaign without them nowadays."
"Perhaps you also know who that—female—" again George's power of utterance failed him. Betty came closer to the window and peered out.
"It's Frances Herrington who is turning the leaves now," she said amiably. "I know her by that ducky toque."
"Frances Herrington! What Harvey Herrington is thinking of to allow——" George's emotion constrained him to broken utterance. "And we're dining there tonight! She has no sense of the decencies—the—the—the hospitality of existence. We won't go—I'll telephone Genevieve——"
"Fie, fie Georgie!" observed Betty. "Why be personal over a mere detail of a political campaign?"
But before George could tell her why his indignation against his prospective hostess was impersonal and unemotional, the long figure of Mr. Doolittle again projected itself upon the scene.
Betty effaced herself, gliding from the inner office, and George turned a look of inquiry upon his manager.
"Well?" the monosyllable had all the force of profanity.