He lighted a cigar, smiling quietly over that youthful quality of Dorman's. “Well,” he went on, leaning back in his chair and looking about the room, “I thought I'd look in on you for a minute. You see I'll not have the _entree_ to the Governor's office by afternoon.” He laughed, the easy, good-humoured laugh of one too sophisticated to spend emotion uselessly. It was he who fell into meditation then, and the Governor sat looking at him; a paragraph from the newspaper came back to him: “Harvey Francis is the most dangerous type of boss politician. His is not the crude and vulgar method that asks a man what his vote is worth. He deals gently and tenderly with consciences. He knows how to get a man without fatally injuring that man's self-respect.” The Governor's own experience bore out the summary. When elected to office as State Senator he had cherished old-fashioned ideas of serving his constituents and doing his duty. But the very first week Francis had asked one of those little favours of him, and, wishing to show his appreciation of support given him in his election, he had granted it. Then various courtesies were shown him; he was let in on a “deal,” and almost before he realised it, it seemed definitely understood that he was a “Francis man.” Francis roused himself and murmured: “Fools!--amateurs.” “Leyman?” ventured the Governor. “Leyman and all of his crowd!” “And yet,” the Governor could not resist, “in another hour this same fool will be Governor of the State. The fool seems to have won.” Francis rose, impatiently. “For the moment. It won't be lasting. In any profession, fools and amateurs may win single victories. They can't keep it up. They don't know _how_. Oh, no,” he insisted, cheerfully, “Leyman will never be re-elected. Fact is, I'm counting on this contract business we've saved up for him getting in good work.” He was moving toward the door. “Well,” he concluded, with a curious little laugh, “see you upstairs.” The Governor looked at the clock. It pointed now to twenty-five minutes past eleven. The last hour was going fast. In a very short time he must join the party in the anteroom of the House. But weariness had come over him. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was close upon seventy, and to-day looked even older than his years. It was not a vicious face, but it was not a strong one. People who wanted to say nice things of the Governor called him pleasant or genial or kindly. Even the men in the appointive offices did not venture to say he had much force. He felt it to-day as he never had before. He had left no mark; he had done nothing, stood for nothing. Never once had his personality made itself felt. He had signed the documents; Harvey Francis had always “suggested”--the term was that man's own--the course to be pursued. And the “suggestions” had ever dictated the policy that would throw the most of influence or money to that splendidly organised machine that Francis controlled.