Mrs. Vanderpool smiled faintly.
"Really, Mr. Easterly, I know little about such matters and care less. I have food and clothes. Why worry with more?"
Mr. Easterly half expected this and he determined to deliver his last shot on the run. He arose with a disappointed air.
"Of course, Mrs. Vanderpool, I see how it is: you have plenty and one can't expect your services or influence for nothing. It had occurred to me that your husband might like something political; but I presume not."
"Something political?"
"Yes. You see, it's barely possible, for instance, that there will be a change in the French ambassadorship. The present ambassador is old and—well, I don't know, but as I say, it's possible. Of course though, that may not appeal to you, and I can only beg your good offices in charity if—if you see your way to help us. Well, I must be going."
"What is—I thought the President appointed ambassadors."
"To be sure, but we appoint Presidents," laughed Mr. Easterly. "Good-day. I shall hope to see you in Washington."
"Good-day," Mrs. Vanderpool returned absently.
After he had gone she walked slowly to Zora's room and opened the door. For a long time she stood quietly looking in. Zora was curled in a chair with a book. She was in dreamland; in a world of books builded thoughtfully for her by Mrs. Vanderpool, and before that by Miss Smith. Her work took but little of her time and left hours for reading and thinking. In that thought-life, more and more her real living centred.