“Proud of the old man, poor little thing!” mused Conover, a twinge of affection for his scared, invertebrate spouse sending a softer light into his strenuous, lean face. His gaze next travelled to Blanche, his daughter. She, too, was red of face, and was talking hard, as if against time. Somehow Caleb was less assured as to the cause of her flush. Perhaps in Europe such speeches were not customary. He could explain to her later. Anice Lanier, alone, met his eye with the frank, honest, unafraid look that was her birthright, and which made her the only living person he instinctively felt he could not bully. In her look he read, now, a mute question. He could not fathom the expression. Caleb left his place and made his way among the tables to where she sat. “How’d it go?” he asked. “It seemed to take ’em.” “I think it did,” she replied, noting the flush on his cheek and the brightness of his gaze, and wondering thereat. “Wasn’t too long to hold their interest?” “No. They seemed interested.” “You think so? Good! Do you know, if I’d had time to think, I’d rather have made fifty campaign speeches than that one. I’d have been rattled to death. But it was easier than any speech I ever made. Good climax, eh, that announcement?” “How long ago did you make up your mind to run for Governor?” “Think it’s queer that, as my secretary, you hadn’t heard of it? Well, I’ll tell you. I decided it just about seven minutes ago. It came to me like a flash, plumb in the middle of my speech. I figgered out all at once that if there was any flaw in my plans so far, the governorship was dead sure to cinch me in society. Folks’ll think twice before they turn up their noses at a governor. It came as an inspiration. A genuine hunch. I never have one of them but what it wins. Why, when——” “But can you get the nomination?” “Can I get it? _Can_ I get it? Say, Miss Lanier, haven’t you learned yet that there isn’t a thing in the city of Granite or in the Mountain State that Caleb Conover, Railroader, can’t get if he wants it bad enough? To-night ought to have showed you that. Why, with the legislature and every newspaper, and the railroad system and every decent State job right here safe between my fingers, all I’ve got to do is to turn the wheel, and the little ball will drop into the governor’s chair all right, all right.” The girl’s big brown eyes were vaguely troubled. The reserve habitual to her when in her employer’s society deepened. She thought of Clive Standish and his aspirations. What would become of the young lawyer’s already desperate hope, now that the Boss himself—and not some mere puppet of the latter’s—was to be his opponent?