When he took off his coat to go to work Helm was so thoroughly flustered that he did not think of his linen--or rather, of his cotton and celluloid--or of the torn back of his waistcoat, or of the discolored lining of his coat. But when he was ready to resume the coat he suddenly saw and felt all these horrors of his now squalid poverty. She was apparently unaware; but he knew that she too had seen, had felt. Unconsciously he looked at her with a humble yet proud appeal--the effort the soul sometimes makes to face directly another soul, with no misleading veil of flesh and other externals between. Their eyes met; she colored faintly and glanced away. Clara and Barton were for dashing straight on home to breakfast--a run of about three-quarters of an hour. But Miss Clearwater was not for the risk. “I’m starved,” said she. “I’ve worked hard, with these two tires. Mr. Helm will find us breakfast in this neighborhood.” “I was going to ask them to give me something at Jake Hibbard’s, about half a mile further on,” said Helm. “It’ll be plain food, but pretty good.” And it was pretty good--coffee, fresh milk, corn bread, fried chicken and potatoes, corn cakes and maple syrup. Barton and Clara ate sparingly. It made George Helm feel closer to the goddess to see that she ate as enthusiastically as did he. “I never saw you eat like this, Nell,” said Clara, not altogether admiring. “You never saw me when I had things I really liked,” replied she. “The way to get your food to be really tasty,” observed Mrs. Hibbard, “is to earn it.” Miss Clearwater deigned to be interested in Mr. Helm’s campaign. “I know something about politics,” said she. “My father was United States Senator a few years ago.” “Oh--you’re George Clearwater’s daughter?” said Helm. He knew all about Clearwater, the lumber “king” who had bought a seat in the Senate because his wife thought she’d like Washington socially. “Yes,” said the girl. “I’m the only child. And you--are you going to be elected?” “Judge Powers’s plurality was more than his opponent’s whole vote last time,” said Helm. “Then you haven’t much hope?” “I don’t hope--I work,” said Helm. As they talked on, he saying nothing beyond what was necessary to answer the questions put to him, it was curious to see how he, the homely and the shabby, became the center of interest. His personality compelled them to think and to talk about him, to revolve round him--this, though he was shrinking in his shyness and could scarcely find words or utterance for them. “What a queer man,” said Clara, when the auto was under way again. “He’s very dowdy and ugly, but somehow you sort of like him.” “He’s not so ugly,” said Miss Clearwater. “Perhaps not--for a man of his class,” said Clara. “I like to meet the lower-class people once in awhile. They’re very interesting.” “I guess,” said Miss Clearwater, absently, “that father was a good deal that sort of a man when he was young.”