MRS. Lee soon became popular. Her parlour was a favourite haunt of
certain men and women who had the art of finding its mistress at home;
an art which seemed not to be within the powers of everybody. Carrington
was apt to be there more often than any one else, so that he was looked
on as almost a part of the family, and if Madeleine wanted a book from
the library, or an extra man at her dinner-table, Carrington was pretty
certain to help her to the one or the other. Old Baron Jacobi, the
Bulgarian minister, fell madly in love with both sisters, as he commonly
did with every pretty face and neat figure. He was a witty, cynical,
broken-down Parisian roué, kept in Washington for years past by his
debts and his salary; always grumbling because there was no opera, and
mysteriously disappearing on visits to New York; a voracious devourer of
French and German literature, especially of novels; a man who seemed to
have met every noted or notorious personage of the century, and whose
mind was a magazine of amusing information; an excellent musical critic,
who was not afraid to criticise Sybil's singing; a connoisseur in
bric-à-brac, who laughed at Madeleine's display of odds and ends, and
occasionally brought her a Persian plate or a bit of embroidery, which
he said was good and would do her credit. This old sinner believed in
everything that was perverse and wicked, but he accepted the prejudices
of Anglo-Saxon society, and was too clever to obtrude his opinions upon
others.
He would have married both sisters at once more willingly than either
alone, but as he feelingly said, “If I were forty years younger,
mademoiselle, you should not sing to me so calmly.” His friend
Popoff, an intelligent, vivacious Russian, with very Calmuck features,
susceptible as a girl, and passionately fond of music, hung over Sybil's
piano by the hour; he brought Russian airs which he taught her to sing,
and, if the truth were known, he bored Madeleine desperately, for she
undertook to act the part of duenna to her younger sister.
A very different visitor was Mr. C. C. French, a young member of
Congress from Connecticut, who aspired to act the part of the educated
gentleman in politics, and to purify the public tone. He had reform
principles and an unfortunately conceited maimer; he was rather wealthy,
rather clever, rather well-educated, rather honest, and rather vulgar.
His allegiance was divided between Mrs. Lee and her sister, whom he
infuriated by addressing as “Miss Sybil” with patronising familiarity.
He was particularly strong in what he called “badinaige,” and his
playful but ungainly attempts at wit drove Mrs.
Lee beyond the bounds of patience. When in a solemn mood, he talked as
though he were practising for the ear of a college debating society,
and with a still worse effect on the patience; but with all this he was
useful, always bubbling with the latest political gossip, and deeply
interested in the fate of party stakes. Quite another sort of person was
Mr. Hartbeest Schneidekoupon, a citizen of Philadelphia, though commonly
resident in New York, where he had fallen a victim to Sybil's charms,
and made efforts to win her young affections by instructing her in the
mysteries of currency and protection, to both which subjects he was
devoted. To forward these two interests and to watch over Miss Ross's
welfare, he made periodical visits to Washington, where he closeted
himself with committee-men and gave expensive dinners to members of
Congress. Mr. Schneidekoupon was rich, and about thirty years old, tall
and thin, with bright eyes and smooth face, elaborate manners and
much loquacity. He had the reputation of turning rapid intellectual
somersaults, partly to amuse himself and partly to startle society. At
one moment he was artistic, and discoursed scientifically about his
own paintings; at another he was literary, and wrote a book on “Noble
Living,” with a humanitarian purpose; at another he was devoted to
sport, rode a steeplechase, played polo, and set up a four-in-hand; his
last occupation was to establish in Philadelphia the Protective Review,
a periodical in the interests of American industry, which he edited
himself, as a stepping-stone to Congress, the Cabinet, and the
Presidency. At about the same time he bought a yacht, and heavy bets
were pending among his sporting friends whether he would manage to
sink first his Review or his yacht. But he was an amiable and excellent
fellow through all his eccentricities, and he brought to Mrs. Lee the
simple outpourings of the amateur politician.
A much higher type of character was Mr. Nathan Gore, of Massachusetts,
a handsome man with a grey beard, a straight, sharply cut nose, and a
fine, penetrating eye; in his youth a successful poet whose satires made
a noise in their day, and are still remembered for the pungency and wit
of a few verses; then a deep student in Europe for many years, until his
famous “History of Spain in America” placed him instantly at the head of
American historians, and made him minister at Madrid, where he remained
four years to his entire satisfaction, this being the nearest approach
to a patent of nobility and a government pension which the American
citizen can attain. A change of administration had reduced him to
private life again, and after some years of retirement he was now in
Washington, willing to be restored to his old mission. Every President
thinks it respectable to have at least one literary man in his pay, and
Mr. Gore's prospects were fair for obtaining his object, as he had the
active support of a majority of the Massachusetts delegation. He was
abominably selfish, colossally egoistic, and not a little vain; but
he was shrewd; he knew how to hold his tongue; he could flatter
dexterously, and he had learned to eschew satire. Only in confidence and
among friends he would still talk freely, but Mrs. Lee was not yet on
those terms with him. These were all men, and there was no want of women
in Mrs.
Lee's parlour; but, after all, they are able to describe themselves
better than any poor novelist can describe them. Generally two currents
of conversation ran on together--one round Sybil, the other about
Madeleine.
“Mees Ross,” said Count Popoff, leading in a handsome young foreigner,
“I have your permission to present to you my friend Count Orsini,
Secretary of the Italian Legation. Are you at home this afternoon? Count
Orsini sings also.”
“We are charmed to see Count Orsini. It is well you came so late, for I
have this moment come in from making Cabinet calls. They were so queer!
I have been crying with laughter for an hour past.” “Do you find these
calls amusing?” asked Popoff, gravely and diplomatically. “Indeed I
do! I went with Julia Schneidekoupon, you know, Madeleine; the
Schneidekoupons are descended from all the Kings of Israel, and are
prouder than Solomon in his glory. And when we got into the house of
some dreadful woman from Heaven knows where, imagine my feelings at
overhearing this conversation: 'What may be your family name, ma'am?'
'Schneidekoupon is my name,' replies Julia, very tall and straight.
'Have you any friends whom I should likely know?' 'I think not,' says
Julia, severely. 'Wal! I don't seem to remember of ever having heerd the
name. But I s'pose it's all right. I like to know who calls.' I almost
had hysterics when we got into the street, but Julia could not see the
joke at all.”
Count Orsini was not quite sure that he himself saw the joke, so he only
smiled becomingly and showed his teeth. For simple, childlike vanity and
self-consciousness nothing equals an Italian Secretary of Legation at
twenty-five. Yet conscious that the effect of his personal beauty
would perhaps be diminished by permanent silence, he ventured to murmur
presently:
“Do you not find it very strange, this society in America?”
“Society!” laughed Sybil with gay contempt. “There are no snakes in
America, any more than in Norway.”
“Snakes, mademoiselle!” repeated Orsini, with the doubtful expression of
one who is not quite certain whether he shall risk walking on thin ice,
and decides to go softly: “Snakes! Indeed they would rather be doves I
would call them.”
A kind laugh from Sybil strengthened into conviction his hope that
he had made a joke in this unknown tongue. His face brightened, his
confidence returned; once or twice he softly repeated to himself: “Not
snakes; they would be doves!” But Mrs. Lee's sensitive ear had caught
Sybil's remark, and detected in it a certain tone of condescension which
was not to her taste.
The impassive countenances of these bland young Secretaries of Legation
seemed to acquiesce far too much as a matter of course in the idea
that there was no society except in the old world. She broke into the
conversation with an emphasis that fluttered the dove-cote:
“Society in America? Indeed there is society in America, and very
good society too; but it has a code of its own, and new-comers seldom
understand it. I will tell you what it is, Mr. Orsini, and you will
never be in danger of making any mistake. 'Society' in America means all
the honest, kindly-mannered, pleasant-voiced women, and all the good,
brave, unassuming men, between the Atlantic and the Pacific. Each
of these has a free pass in every city and village, 'good for this
generation only,' and it depends on each to make use of this pass or
not as it may happen to suit his or her fancy. To this rule there are
no exceptions, and those who say 'Abraham is our father' will surely
furnish food for that humour which is the staple product of our
country.”
The alarmed youths, who did not in the least understand the meaning of
this demonstration, looked on with a feeble attempt at acquiescence,
while Mrs.
Lee brandished her sugar-tongs in the act of transferring a lump of
sugar to her cup, quite unconscious of the slight absurdity of the
gesture, while Sybil stared in amazement, for it was not often that
her sister waved the stars and stripes so energetically. Whatever their
silent criticisms might be, however, Mrs. Lee was too much in earnest to
be conscious of them, or, indeed, to care for anything but what she
was saying. There was a moment's pause when she came to the end of her
speech, and then the thread of talk was quietly taken up again where
Sybil's incipient sneer had broken it.
Carrington came in. “What have you been doing at the Capitol?” asked
Madeleine.
“Lobbying!” was the reply, given in the semi-serious tone of
Carrington's humour.
“So soon, and Congress only two days old?” exclaimed Mrs. Lee.
“Madam,” rejoined Carrington, with his quietest malice, “Congressmen are
like birds of the air, which are caught only by the early worm.” “Good
afternoon, Mrs. Lee. Miss Sybil, how do you do again? Which of these
gentlemen's hearts are you feeding upon now?” This was the refined style
of Mr. French, indulging in what he was pleased to term “badinaige.” He,
too, was on his way from the Capitol, and had come in for a cup of tea
and a little human society. Sybil made a face which plainly expressed a
longing to inflict on Mr. French some grievous personal wrong, but she
pretended not to hear. He sat down by Madeleine, and asked, “Did you see
Ratcliffe yesterday?”
“Yes,” said Madeleine; “he was here last evening with Mr. Carrington and
one or two others.”
“Did he say anything about politics?”
“Not a word. We talked mostly about books.”
“Books! What does he know about books?”
“You must ask him.”
“Well, this is the most ridiculous situation we are all in. No one
knows anything about the new President. You could take your oath that
everybody is in the dark. Ratcliffe says he knows as little as the rest
of us, but it can't be true; he is too old a politician not to have
wires in his hand; and only to-day one of the pages of the Senate told
my colleague Cutter that a letter sent off by him yesterday was directed
to Sam Grimes, of North Bend, who, as every one knows, belongs to the
President's particular crowd.--Why, Mr. Schneidekoupon! How do you do?
When did you come on?”
“Thank you; this morning,” replied Mr. Schneidekoupon, just entering the
room. “So glad to see you again, Mrs. Lee. How do you and your sister
like Washington? Do you know I have brought Julia on for a visit? I
thought I should find her here.
“She has just gone. She has been all the afternoon with Sybil, making
calls. She says you want her here to lobby for you, Mr. Schneidekoupon.
Is it true?”
“So I did,” replied he, with a laugh, “but she is precious little use.
So I've come to draft you into the service.”
“Me!”
“Yes; you know we all expect Senator Ratcliffe to be Secretary of the
Treasury, and it is very important for us to keep him straight on the
currency and the tariff. So I have come on to establish more intimate
relations with him, as they say in diplomacy. I want to get him to dine
with me at Welckley's, but as I know he keeps very shy of politics I
thought my only chance was to make it a ladies' dinner, so I brought on
Julia. I shall try and get Mrs. Schuyler Clinton, and I depend upon you
and your sister to help Julia out.”
“Me! at a lobby dinner! Is that proper?”
“Why not? You shall choose the guests.”
“I never heard of such a thing; but it would certainly be amusing. Sybil
must not go, but I might.” “Excuse me; Julia depends upon Miss Ross, and
will not go to table without her.”
“Well,” assented Mrs. Lee, hesitatingly, “perhaps if you get Mrs.
Clinton, and if your sister is there And who else?”
“Choose your own company.”
“I know no one.”
“Oh yes; here is French, not quite sound on the tariff, but good for
what we want just now. Then we can get Mr. Gore; he has his little
hatchet to grind too, and will be glad to help grind ours. We only want
two or three more, and I will have an extra man or so to fill up.”
“Do ask the Speaker. I want to know him.”
“I will, and Carrington, and my Pennsylvania Senator. That will do
nobly. Remember, Welckley's, Saturday at seven.”
Meanwhile Sybil had been at the piano, and when she had sung for a time,
Orsini was induced to take her place, and show that it was possible
to sing without injury to one's beauty. Baron Jacobi came in and found
fault with them both. Little Miss Dare--commonly known among her male
friends as little Daredevil--who was always absorbed in some flirtation
with a Secretary of Legation, came in, quite unaware that Popoff was
present, and retired with him into a corner, while Orsini and Jacobi
bullied poor Sybil, and fought with each other at the piano; everybody
was talking with very little reference to any reply, when at last Mrs.
Lee drove them all out of the room: “We are quiet people,” said she,
“and we dine at half-past six.”
Senator Ratcliffe had not failed to make his Sunday evening call upon
Mrs.
Lee. Perhaps it was not strictly correct to say that they had talked
books all the evening, but whatever the conversation was, it had
only confirmed Mr. Ratcliffe's admiration for Mrs. Lee, who, without
intending to do so, had acted a more dangerous part than if she had been
the most accomplished of coquettes. Nothing could be more fascinating
to the weary politician in his solitude than the repose of Mrs. Lee's
parlour, and when Sybil sang for him one or two simple airs--she
said they were foreign hymns, the Senator being, or being considered,
orthodox--Mr. Ratcliffe's heart yearned toward the charming girl quite
with the sensations of a father, or even of an elder brother.
His brother senators very soon began to remark that the Prairie Giant
had acquired a trick of looking up to the ladies' gallery. One day Mr.
Jonathan Andrews, the special correspondent of the New York Sidereal
System, a very friendly organ, approached Senator Schuyler Clinton with
a puzzled look on his face.
“Can you tell me,” said he, “what has happened to Silas P. Ratcliffe?
Only a moment ago I was talking with him at his seat on a very important
subject, about which I must send his opinions off to New York to-night,
when, in the middle of a sentence, he stopped short, got up without
looking at me, and left the Senate Chamber, and now I see him in the
gallery talking with a lady whose face I don't know.”
Senator Clinton slowly adjusted his gold eye-glasses and looked up at
the place indicated: “Ah! Mrs. Lightfoot Lee! I think I will say a word
to her myself;” and turning his back on the special correspondent, he
skipped away with youthful agility after the Senator from Illinois.
“Devil!” muttered Mr. Andrews; “what has got into the old fools?” and in
a still less audible murmur as he looked up to Mrs. Lee, then in close
conversation with Ratcliffe: “Had I better make an item of that?”
When young Mr. Schneidekoupon called upon Senator Ratcliffe to invite
him to the dinner at Welckley's, he found that gentleman overwhelmed
with work, as he averred, and very little disposed to converse. No! he
did not now go out to dinner. In the present condition of the public
business he found it impossible to spare the time for such amusements.
He regretted to decline Mr. Schneidekoupon's civility, but there were
imperative reasons why he should abstain for the present from social
entertainments; he had made but one exception to his rule, and only at
the pressing request of his old friend Senator Clinton, and on a very
special occasion.
Mr. Schneidekoupon was deeply vexed--the more, he said, because he had
meant to beg Mr. and Mrs. Clinton to be of the party, as well as a very
charming lady who rarely went into society, but who had almost consented
to come.
“Who is that?” inquired the Senator.
“A Mrs. Lightfoot Lee, of New York. Probably you do not know her well
enough to admire her as I do; but I think her quite the most intelligent
woman I ever met.”
The Senator's cold eyes rested for a moment on the young man's open face
with a peculiar expression of distrust. Then he solemnly said, in his
deepest senatorial tones:
“My young friend, at my time of life men have other things to occupy
them than women, however intelligent they may be. Who else is to be of
your party?”
Mr. Schneidekoupon named his list.
“And for Saturday evening at seven, did you say?”
“Saturday at seven.”
“I fear there is little chance of my attending, but I will not
absolutely decline. Perhaps when the moment arrives, I may find myself
able to be there. But do not count upon me--do not count upon me. Good
day, Mr. Schneidekoupon.”
Schneidekoupon was rather a simple-minded young man, who saw no deeper
than his neighbours into the secrets of the universe, and he went off
swearing roundly at “the infernal airs these senators give themselves.”
He told Mrs.
Lee all the conversation, as indeed he was compelled to do under penalty
of bringing her to his party under false pretences.
“Just my luck,” said he; “here I am forced to ask no end of people to
meet a man, who at the same time says he shall probably not come. Why,
under the stars, couldn't he say, like other people, whether he was
coming or not? I've known dozens of senators, Mrs. Lee, and they're all
like that. They never think of any one but themselves.”
Mrs. Lee smiled rather a forced smile, and soothed his wounded feelings;
she had no doubt the dinner would be very agreeable whether the Senator
were there or not; at any rate she would do all she could to carry it
off well, and Sybil should wear her newest dress. Still she was a little
grave, and Mr. Schneidekoupon could only declare that she was a trump;
that he had told Ratcliffe she was the cleverest woman he ever met, and
he might have added the most obliging, and Ratcliffe had only looked
at him as though he were a green ape. At all which Mrs. Lee laughed
good-naturedly, and sent him away as soon as she could.
When he was gone, she walked up and down the room and thought. She saw
the meaning of Ratcliffe's sudden change in tone. She had no more doubt
of his coming to the dinner than she had of the reason why he came.
And was it possible that she was being drawn into something very near
a flirtation with a man twenty years her senior; a politician from
Illinois; a huge, ponderous, grey-eyed, bald senator, with a Websterian
head, who lived in Peonia? The idea was almost too absurd to be
credited; but on the whole the thing itself was rather amusing. “I
suppose senators can look out for themselves like other men,” was her
final conclusion. She thought only of his danger, and she felt a sort
of compassion for him as she reflected on the possible consequences of a
great, absorbing love at his time of life.
Her conscience was a little uneasy; but of herself she never thought.
Yet it is a historical fact that elderly senators have had a curious
fascination for young and handsome women. Had they looked out for
themselves too? And which parties most needed to be looked after?
When Madeleine and her sister arrived at Welckley's 's the next Saturday
evening, they found poor Schneidekoupon in a temper very unbecoming a
host.
“He won't come! I told you he wouldn't come!” said he to Madeleine, as
he handed her into the house. “If I ever turn communist, it will be for
the fun of murdering a senator.”
Madeleine consoled him gently, but he continued to use, behind Mr.
Clinton's back, language the most offensive and improper towards the
Senate, and at last, ringing the bell, he sharply ordered the head
waiter to serve dinner.
At that very moment the door opened, and Senator Ratcliffe's stately
figure appeared on the threshold. His eye instantly caught Madeleine's,
and she almost laughed aloud, for she saw that the Senator was dressed
with very unsenatorial neatness; that he had actually a flower in his
burton-hole and no gloves!
After the enthusiastic description which Schneidekoupon had given of
Mrs.
Lee's charms, he could do no less than ask Senator Ratcliffe to take her
in to dinner, which he did without delay. Either this, or the champagne,
or some occult influence, had an extraordinary effect upon him. He
appeared ten years younger than usual; his face was illuminated; his
eyes glowed; he seemed bent on proving his kinship to the immortal
Webster by rivalling his convivial powers. He dashed into the
conversation; laughed, jested, and ridiculed; told stories in Yankee
and Western dialect; gave sharp little sketches of amusing political
experiences.
“Never was more surprised in my life,” whispered Senator Krebs, of
Pennsylvania, across the table to Schneidekoupon. “Hadn't an idea that
Ratcliffe was so entertaining.”
And Mr. Clinton, who sat by Madeleine on the other side, whispered low
into her ear: “I am afraid, my dear Mrs. Lee, that you are responsible
for this. He never talks so to the Senate.”
Nay, he even rose to a higher flight, and told the story of President
Lincoln's death-bed with a degree of feeling that brought tears into
their eyes. The other guests made no figure at all. The Speaker consumed
his solitary duck and his lonely champagne in a corner without giving a
sign.
Even Mr. Gore, who was not wont to hide his light under any kind of
extinguisher, made no attempt to claim the floor, and applauded with
enthusiasm the conversation of his opposite neighbour. Ill-natured
people might say that Mr. Gore saw in Senator Ratcliffe a possible
Secretary of State; be this as it may, he certainly said to Mrs.
Clinton, in an aside that was perfectly audible to every one at the
table: “How brilliant! what an original mind! what a sensation he would
make abroad!” And it was quite true, apart from the mere momentary
effect of dinner-table talk, that there was a certain bigness about
the man; a keen practical sagacity; a bold freedom of self-assertion; a
broad way of dealing with what he knew.
Carrington was the only person at table who looked on with a perfectly
cool head, and who criticised in a hostile spirit. Carrington's
impression of Ratcliffe was perhaps beginning to be warped by a shade
of jealousy, for he was in a peculiarly bad temper this evening, and his
irritation was not wholly concealed.
“If one only had any confidence in the man!” he muttered to French, who
sat by him.
This unlucky remark set French to thinking how he could draw
Ratcliffe out, and accordingly, with his usual happy manner, combining
self-conceit and high principles, he began to attack the Senator with
some “badinaige” on the delicate subject of Civil Service Reform, a
subject almost as dangerous in political conversation at Washington as
slavery itself in old days before the war. French was a reformer, and
lost no occasion of impressing his views; but unluckily he was a very
light weight, and his manner was a little ridiculous, so that even Mrs.
Lee, who was herself a warm reformer, sometimes went over to the other
side when he talked. No sooner had he now shot his little arrow at the
Senator, than that astute man saw his opportunity, and promised himself
the pleasure of administering to Mr.
French punishment such as he knew would delight the company. Reformer
as Mrs. Lee was, and a little alarmed at the roughness of Ratcliffe's
treatment, she could not blame the Prairie Giant, as she ought, who,
after knocking poor French down, rolled him over and over in the mud.
“Are you financier enough, Mr. French, to know what are the most famous
products of Connecticut?”
Mr. French modestly suggested that he thought its statesmen best
answered that description.
“No, sir! even there you're wrong. The showmen beat you on your own
ground. But every child in the union knows that the most famous products
of Connecticut are Yankee notions, nutmegs made of wood and clocks that
won't go. Now, your Civil Service Reform is just such another Yankee
notion; it's a wooden nutmeg; it's a clock with a show case and sham
works. And you know it! You are precisely the old-school Connecticut
peddler. You have gone about peddling your wooden nutmegs until you have
got yourself into Congress, and now you pull them out of your pockets
and not only want us to take them at your own price, but you lecture us
on our sins if we don't. Well! we don't mind your doing that at home.
Abuse us as much as you like to your constituents. Get as many votes as
you can. But don't electioneer here, because we know you intimately, and
we've all been a little in the wooden nutmeg business ourselves.”
Senator Clinton and Senator Krebs chuckled high approval over this
punishment of poor French, which was on the level of their idea of wit.
They were all in the nutmeg business, as Ratcliffe said. The victim
tried to make head against them; he protested that his nutmegs were
genuine; he sold no goods that he did not guarantee; and that this
particular article was actually guaranteed by the national conventions
of both political parties.
“Then what you want, Mr. French, is a common school education. You
need a little study of the alphabet. Or if you won't believe me, ask my
brother senators here what chance there is for your Reforms so long
as the American citizen is what he is.”
“You'll not get much comfort in my State, Mr. French,” growled the
senator from Pennsylvania, with a sneer; “suppose you come and try.”
“Well, well!” said the benevolent Mr. Schuyler Clinton, gleaming
benignantly through his gold spectacles; “don't be too hard on French.
He means well. Perhaps he's not very wise, but he does good. I know more
about it than any of you, and I don't deny that the thing is all bad.
Only, as Mr. Ratcliffe says, the difficulty is in the people, not in us.
Go to work on them, French, and let us alone.”
French repented of his attack, and contented himself by muttering to
Carrington: “What a set of damned old reprobates they are!”
“They are right, though, in one thing,” was Carrington's reply: “their
advice is good. Never ask one of them to reform anything; if you do, you
will be reformed yourself.”
The dinner ended as brilliantly as it began, and Schneidekoupon was
delighted with his success. He had made himself particularly agreeable
to Sybil by confiding in her all his hopes and fears about the tariff
and the finances. When the ladies left the table, Ratcliffe could not
stay for a cigar; he must get back to his rooms, where he knew several
men were waiting for him; he would take his leave of the ladies and
hurry away. But when the gentlemen came up nearly an hour afterwards
they found Ratcliffe still taking his leave of the ladies, who were
delighted at his entertaining conversation; and when at last he really
departed, he said to Mrs. Lee, as though it were quite a matter of
course: “You are at home as usual to-morrow evening?” Madeleine smiled,
bowed, and he went his way.
As the two sisters drove home that night, Madeleine was unusually
silent.
Sybil yawned convulsively and then apologized:
“Mr. Schneidekoupon is very nice and good-natured, but a whole evening
of him goes a long way; and that horrid Senator Krebs would not say a
word, and drank a great deal too much wine, though it couldn't make him
any more stupid than he is. I don't think I care for senators.” Then,
wearily, after a pause: “Well, Maude, I do hope you've got what you
wanted. I'm sure you must have had politics enough. Haven't you got to
the heart of your great American mystery yet?”
“Pretty near it, I think,” said Madeleine, half to herself.