Wilkinson held out his hand, saying:
"I'll make myself scarce and let you make sure in your own way that she does belong to you, Governor Beekman. Clinch the bargain, my boy; strike while the iron's hot; make hay while the sun shines."
A moment more and Wilkinson had ambled off to smoke another black cigar and to pat himself upon the back, while the happy pair, heedful of his advice, in the dim light of the music-room proceeded to make hay while the sun shone, even though without the November storm raged above the Hudson.
It was a night to be marked with a white stone for them, a happy memory in the days to come. For the time was not far distant when the sun for them would cease to shine, when the storm was to rage within these two as it now raged without the big house on the Drive.
XVII
On a bright snappy morning of the following Spring, Governor Beekman, reaching his private room in the Capitol at Albany a little ahead of time, began to pace slowly up and down in front of the open windows. A wonderfully pleasant place the world seemed to him now. However much his ambition might grope forward in the future, the present was eminently satisfactory. All his struggles seemed to lie behind him; before him he saw power, pleasant ways, and Leslie Wilkinson.
His private secretary, on time to the minute, broke in on his thoughts.
"This came in last night, Governor," he said, "after you'd left. I read it over."
"What is it?" asked the Governor, absent-mindedly.