“A particular friend, who telegraphs me to say that he will arrive here to-morrow,” with a knowing smile.
I guessed the name. My heart told it me with a pang of envy.
“Not Wynwood Melton?” she said.
“The very man!”
I knew it.
“I’m so glad!” she cried, clapping her dainty hands together. “It will be great fun to have him in the house! What capital imitations he will give us of Gladstone, Disraeli, Bright, and Whalley! And what stories! Mr. Fitzgerald,” she added with considerable earnestness, “you must vote for him.”
I think I was about to pledge myself to do so, forgetful of the dire consequences of such a proceeding on my part, when her father interrupted:
“He cannot, my dear. Mr. Fitzgerald is one of us—a liberal.”
“I am a liberal,” she laughed.
“I presume he will have a walk-over,” said Mr. Hawthorne.