Another brilliant thought infected him. He had long since passed the stage in which women were a mystery to him: he had long since realized that unless a man's passions intervene, there is nothing more mysterious about women than about men. It was all humbug--all this mummery about intuitions and unerring perception and inscrutability. Women are all alike--all human--all susceptible to sheer, blatant flattery. The only difference in women is in the particular brand of flattery to which, as individuals, they react. Take Miss Starkweather: he had seen that if he fed her vanity unsparingly--not her physical vanity, but her pride in her own soul, and in her League presidency--she blazed up into a flame which consumed even her purpose in causing the interview. Once already, by no remarkable effort, he had been able to divert her attention; and it was now imperative for him to keep it diverted until he had raised five thousand dollars. And if she were so susceptible, why shouldn't Mr. Mix venture a trifle further? He knew that she regarded him as an important man; why shouldn't he let himself be won over, slowly and by her influence alone, to higher things? Stopping, of course, just short of actually becoming a League partisan? Why shouldn't he feed her fat with ethics and adulation, until she were more anxious for his cooperation than for his money? If he couldn't play hide-and-seek for six months,--if he couldn't turn her head so far that she couldn't bear to press him for payment--he wasn't the strategist he believed himself to be. But in the meantime, where was he to get the money to live on? Still, Mirabelle came first. On Sunday, he fortified himself from his meagre supply of contraband, ate two large cloves, and went formally to call on her. He remained an hour, and by exercise of the most finished diplomacy, he succeeded in building up the situation exactly as he had planned it. The note hadn't been mentioned; the League hadn't been given a breathing-space; and Mirabelle was pleading with him to see the light, and join the crusade. Finally, she leaned forward and put her hand on his arm. "Two weeks ago," she said, "I told the League I was going to give it a real surprise this next Tuesday. What I meant was money. The money for that note. But I'd hate to have you sell any securities when they're down so low. And besides, _any_body can give money--just money. What we need most is men. Let me do something different. You're one of the big men here. You count for a good deal. We want you. I said I'd give 'em a surprise--let me make the League a present of _you_." She bestowed upon him a smile which was a startling combination of sharpness and appeal. "I'm certainly going to keep my promise, Mr. Mix. I'm going to give 'em one or the other--you or the five thousand. Only I tell you in all sincerity, I'd rather it would be you." Mr. Mix sat up with a jerk. The climax had been reached six months too soon. "Dear lady--"