Bedloe Hubbell's campaign was another topic. And Phil had observed, with the earnestness which marked his more serious statements, that it wouldn't surprise him if young Carter, Hubbell's candidate for mayor, overturned that autumn the Beatty machine.
“Oh, do you think so!” Alison exclaimed with exhilaration.
“They're frightened and out of breath,” said Phil, “they had no idea that Bedloe would stick after they had licked him in three campaigns. Two years ago they tried to buy him off by offering to send him to the Senate, and Wallis Plimpton has never got through his head to this why he refused.”
Plimpton's head, Eleanor declared dryly, was impervious to a certain kind of idea.
“I wonder if you know, Mr. Hodder, what an admirer Mr. Hubbell is of yours?” Alison asked. “He is most anxious to have a talk with you.”
Hodder did not know.
“Well,” said Phil, enthusiastically, to the rector, “that's the best tribute you've had yet. I can't say that Bedloe was a more unregenerate heathen than I was, but he was pretty bad.”
This led them, all save Hodder, into comments on the character of the congregation the Sunday before, in the midst of which the rector was called away to the telephone. Sally Grover had promised to let him know whether or not they had found Kate Marcy, and his face was grave when he returned.... He was still preoccupied, an hour later, when Alison arose to go.
“But your carriage isn't here,” said Phil, going to the window.
“Oh, I preferred to, walk,” she told him, “it isn't far.”