“What I think of them wouldn't be fit to print,” said Ames candidly. “Dick Pogue's rather a hot proposition for your man to stack up against, and back of Pogue is J. C. Smith.” Ames slipped off the edge of the bed and took a turn about the room.
“You must admit, Mr. Ames, that nobody has any confidence in either General Pogue or Mr. Smith,” said McPherson.
“They can get along without it,” said Ames with calm cynicism.
“I shouldn't like to think that any public man could go far without the trust of his fellow citizens,” observed McPherson.
“With those ideas you should keep clear of politics. You and Mr. Carveth may as well retire to the classic regions of Susansville.”
“Marysville,” corrected McPherson mildly.
“Marysville, then,” said Ames. He paused by the corner of McPherson's desk. “Well, the occasion will be interesting as a souvenir of public life, eh, McPherson?” and he smiled down pityingly on the top of the secretary's slightly bald head, for McPherson was looking into the pictured face of a young girl whose photograph, framed in red plush, decorated his desk. Ames extended his hand and possessed himself of the photograph, which he proceeded to examine. “Your sister?” he asked, after a moment's silence.
“Miss Carveth,” said W. C. B. McPherson, but his voice had lost much of its agreeable quality.
“I beg your pardon,” said Ames, flushing as he hastily returned the photograph to its place on the desk. McPherson quitted his chair.
“I think we had better go down-stairs,” he observed stiffly.