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till after the election, too. I’m the champion of the stuffed shirts. Suppose I got arrested for drunkenness or was seen drunk. Wouldn’t you like to see the headline in the Independent?”
    “They tell me Gregg Upham gives lovely parties. Take me.”
    “No. You wouldn’t like them at all. Bohemians, or think they are.”
    “You’re much too moral, Read.”
    “I wouldn’t say that.”
    “You’re much too wholesome for a person like me. Why, you’ve never even tried to sleep with me.” Read was shocked and started back a step, then he laughed.
    “I haven’t had any encouragement.”
    “What do you mean by encouragement? I haven’t exactly held you at arm’s length.”
    “Oh, well. I guess I don’t understand such things.” There was a short silence. Read shifted uneasily. He knew that Eileen was very much upset about something; he decided that he’d pay no attention to what she had said.
    “I’m glad you don’t. I was clowning, Read. You know that. Come over here in the shadows and kiss me goodnight. I think the Trevors across the way get out their opera glasses as soon as they see me drive up. I’m the wicked Countess.”
    Read held on to himself with difficulty; Eileen kissed him more warmly and much more insistently than ever before. Finally she drew away from him and went in quickly, shutting the door without turning.
    Read was unpleasantly excited. His hands were trembling and he began to swear softly. Shrugging, he turned up his coat collar, then he took out a cigar and lit it. His Irish chauffeur, O’Leary, opened the car door for him.
    “I’ll sit up in front, Barney,” he said.
    On the way home he sat smoking in silence, seeing nothing. What about Eileen after all?

TWO: FRIDAY
     

I
    Read woke with a peculiar feeling of expectancy the next morning; a feeling he tried hard to account for. All the time he was shaving he searched his mind, and it was only at breakfast that it came to him. The check-girl! He had had a vague dream about her; she had wanted him to do something for her, pardon somebody or use his influence in some way; he never made out just what it was. But she herself had been plain as day in a red dress which set off her plump figure beautifully; her white teeth shone, her dark hair was curly and lustrous.
    Boyle was speaking to him. He turned. The Negro was looking at him in a rather peculiar way. Had he been thinking out loud? He cleared his throat.
    “Oatmeal or breakfast food, Governor?”
    “Either. I don’t care. Is Jean up?”
    “Yes, sir. Will be right down. I’ll bring the oatmeal, then?”
    “Yes.”
    The Negro went out. Read turned and sat staring out the tall dining-room windows. It was a gray November day; sparse white snowflakes were falling slowly down from the low clouds. The trees and lawns were bare. Beyond the iron fence, Read saw the morning traffic of East Broad Street. He glanced at his watch: quarter till nine.
    Boyle came in with the oatmeal, but paused. There was a commotion of some kind on the front porch. Read heard angry voices and scuffling.
    “See what that is.”
    The Negro put down the tray and went out into the hall, passing Jean, who dashed into the dining room, kissed her father, then sat down and began banging her plate with a spoon.
    “Food!” she cried. “I’m starving.”
    “Be quiet, baby,” said Read, smiling. “If you’re not a case of arrested development, I…”
    But he was interrupted. A dirty little man in a ragged coat burst in from the hallway, eluding Boyle and Barney O’Leary, who rushed in behind him and collared him.
    “Here you!” said Barney, his Irish up, and his fist all ready for a blow.
    The little man was gasping and sputtering.
    “Hit me!” he cried. “That’s right. Hit me!”
    Jean stared with her full-lipped, babyish mouth slightly open. The Governor said:
    “Wait a minute, Barney.” Then he looked at the ragged man. “What do you want?”
    “I want to see