She had been attending a conference of the Ethical Reform League, and as Mr. Starkweather's car drew in to the curb, the reformers were just emerging to the sidewalk. He surveyed them, disparagingly. First, there was a vanguard of middle-aged women, remarkably short of waist and long of skirt, who looked as though they had stepped directly from the files of Godey's Lady's Book; he recognized a few of them, and judged the others accordingly--these were the militants, the infantry, who bore the brunt of the fighting. Next, there was a group of younger women, and of young men--the men, almost without exception, wore spectacles and white washable ties. These were the skirmishers and the reserves. At one side, there was a little delegation in frock-coats and silk hats, and as Mr. Starkweather beheld them, he lifted his eyebrows; some of those older men he hadn't seen in public for a dozen years--he had forgotten that they were alive. But the majority of them were retired or retiring capitalists; men who in their day, had managed important interests, and even now controlled them. Mr. Starkweather reflected that life must have become very insipid to them; and he further reflected that their place in this organization must be as shock-troops. They would seldom go into action, but when they did, they had the power of consequence to give them an added momentum. His sister caught sight of him, and waved her hand in greeting; and this astonished him all the more, because since Henry's departure, she had behaved towards him as though his character needed a bath. Mr. Starkweather made room for her. "Thought I'd give you a lift back to the house," he said. There was an unusual colour in her cheeks, and her eyes were brilliant. "John, do you know what I am?" Mr. Starkweather didn't dare to hesitate. "No. What?" "I'm the--president," she said, and her voice was trembling with pride and bewilderment. "President? Of the League?" Transfigured, she nodded again and again. "The nominating committee reported this morning. I'm the only candidate...." She stared at him and stiffened. "Of course, I know you aren't interested in anything helpful or progressive, so I don't expect to be congratulated. Of course not." Mr. Starkweather made a dutiful struggle to be joyous about it, and succeeded only in producing a feeble smirk. "I'll say one thing--you've got some money represented in that crowd. Those old codgers. I didn't realize it.... Well, what's your program?" She unbent a little, and began to recite her platform, and as she skipped from plank to plank, her own enthusiasm was multiplied, and Mr. Starkweather was correspondingly encased in gloom. As a mere active member of the League, a private in the ranks, Mirabelle had made his house no more cheerful as a mausoleum; and when he considered what she might accomplish as a president, in charge of a sweeping blue-law campaign, his imagination refused to take the hurdle.