Morrison had found his pipe in his overcoat pocket. He was soothing himself with a smoke on the way toward the Corson mansion. "But why worry so much when the night is still young?" he queried, placidly. VII THE THIN CRUST OVER BOILING LAVA Senator Corson, at the head of the receiving-line, attended strictly to the task in hand as an urbane and assiduous host. Wonted by long political usage to estimate everything on the basis of votes for and against, he was entirely convinced, by the face of the returns that evening, that the reception he was tendering was a grand success, unanimously indorsed; he would have been immensely surprised to learn that under his roof there was a bitterly incensed, furiously resentful minority that was voting "No!" The "Yes!" was by the applausive, open, _viva voce_ vote of all those who filed past him and shook his hand and thronged along toward the buffet that was operated in _de luxe_ style by a metropolitan caterer's corps of servants. The Senator's mansion was spacious and luxuriously appointed, and the millions from the products of his timber-land barony were lavishly behind his hospitality. Consoled by the knowledge that Corson could well afford the treat, his guests, after that well-understood quality in human nature, relished the hospitality more keenly. At the buffet all the plates were piled high. In the smoking-room men took handfuls of the Senator's cigars from the boxes. And the pleasantry connected with Governor Lawrence North's custom in campaigning was frequently heard. It was related of North that he always thriftily passed his cigars by his own hand and counseled the recipient: "Help yourself! Take all you want! Take two!" The guests adopted the comfortable attitude that Corson had dropped down home to Marion to pay a debt which he owed to his constituents, and they all jumped in with alacrity to help him pay it. While the orchestra played and the ware of the buffet clattered, the joyous voices of the overwhelming majority gave Senator Corson to understand that he was the idol of his people and the prop of the state. The minority kept her mouth closed and her teeth were set hard. The minority was racked by agony that extended from finger-tips to shoulder. The minority was distinctly groggy. This minority was compassed in the person of a single young and handsome matron who was Mrs. J. Warren Stanton in her home city Blue Book, and Doris in the family register of Father Silas Daunt, and "Dorrie" in the good graces of Brother Coventry Daunt. In addition she was the close friend, the social mentor, the volunteer chaperon for Lana Corson, whose mother had become voicelessly and meekly the mistress of the Corson mausoleum, as she had been meekly and unobtrusively the mistress of the Corson mansion. Miss Lana had suddenly observed warning symptoms in the case of Mrs. Stanton.