Chapter II

It was after the Tufts woman had gone that Mary recognised some subtle change in Thomas Patrick, a sort of mysterious excitement. He could not sit still, but walked around, jingling the small change in his pocket. He seemed, too, to be eyeing the furniture with a sort of appraisal.

“Made no mistake over this dining room set,” he said once.

He even wandered into the parlour, and stood awhile in front of the leather self-rocker, which they were still paying for.

“Darned good chair,” he said.

“Kind of like yourself this evening, don’t you?”

“Just thinking how lucky I am,” he said, rather shyly.

But when she suggested seeing Douglas Fairbanks in Robin Hood, he did not show his usual enthusiasm.

“I’ll go if you want to, honey,” he said. “But I’m sort of tired, myself.”

Mary eyed him. She knew that better than anything he loved a Fairbanks picture. He would sit, small and self-effacing in the darkness, and in his soul it was he who was fighting and riding on the screen. His were the reckless smile, the bravado and bluster, that moved before him. She had felt him stiffen for the leap when the hero dropped from a balcony onto his horse.

Almost he himself galloped away!

“I don’t care much about it,” she said, and watched him again.

He went upstairs rather early, and laid out his best shirt for the morning, putting in the buttons neatly and examining his shoes. And when bedtime came she was electrified to find that he had brought out his new white madras pajamas, kept for sickness, and was putting them on.

The shirt had aroused her ever-ready suspicions. The pajamas lulled them. And when, after his nightly custom, he came around to “tuck her into bed” she put up her arms and drew him down to her.

“You’re the best man in the world, Pat,” she said.

“I’m not good enough for you, honey.” She was to remember that later.

It was when they were both tucked away that he broached his great news, in the darkness and fumbling about for her hand.

“How’d you like to live in Washington?”

She sat upright.

“Washington? You’re crazy.”

“The Chief’s going to run for Senator.”

Mary was silent, considering the news.

“He’ll never get it.”

“You bet he will.”

“Him a Senator!” said Mary, with a sniff.

“Now look here, honey—”

“Well, I’m not moving the furniture yet!” she said, and settled back on her pillow.

He lay still, staring into the darkness. If only Mary could see the Chief as he saw him in the office; receiving great men with a nod; making his quick, sure decisions; the office a dead thing until he came and then vitalised into action, into importance—if only Mary could see the greatness in the man!

And after a time he felt Mary’s hand groping for his.

“I’m sorry, Pat,” she said, “I guess I’m just jealous of him. That’s all. But I’d love to go to Washington.”

He was suddenly very happy. They would go to Washington, and up on Capitol Hill the Chief would do his great work for the nation. Then, on days when the Chief was to speak, Mary could sit in the gallery of the Senate and listen to him.

She would see then how he stood out from the ruck of common men. Why, he _looked_ a Senator; big and handsome and powerful. Perhaps he would even be President some day. He considered that. “Mr. Thomas P. Finnerty, secretary to the President, to-day gave out the following statement—”

Mary would like that.