His expression was wooden, but it concealed a thought which had flashed up, spontaneously, to dazzle him. In spite of his age and experience, Mr. Mix threatened to blush. The downfall of Henry meant the elevation of Mirabelle. Mr. Mix himself could assist in swinging the balance. And he couldn't quite destroy a picture of Mirabelle, walking down the aisle out of step to the wedding march. Her arms were loaded with exotic flowers, of which each petal was a crisp yellow bank-bill. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to snort in deprecation, and he did neither. He was too busy with the consciousness that at last he was in a position to capitalize his information. He knew what nobody else did, outside of Henry and his wife, Mirabelle, Mr. Archer and probably Judge Barklay and if he flung himself into the League's campaign, what might he now accomplish? He looked at Mirabelle. Her eyes betrayed her admiration. Mr. Mix drew a very long breath, and in the space of ten seconds thought ahead for a year. The League was ridiculously radical, but if Mr. Mix were appointed to direct it, he was confident that he could keep Mirabelle contented, without making himself too much of a ludicrous figure. All it needed was tact, and foresight. "If I could only spare the time to help you--but you see, this is my dull season--I have to work twice as hard as usual to make an honest dollar--" "Would you accept an honorarium?" "Beg pardon?" "If you took charge of the drive, would you accept a salary? And give us most of your time? Say, four days a week?" Once more, his thoughts raced through the year. "Now," he said, presently, "you _are_ making it hard for me to refuse." "Only that? Haven't I made it impossible?" To Mr. Mix, her tone was almost more of a challenge than an invitation. He looked at her again; and at last he nodded. "I think--you have." She held out her hand. "I've always respected you as a man. Now I greet you as a comrade. We'll make this city a place where a pure-minded man or woman won't be ashamed to live. I tell you, I won't be satisfied until we reach the _ideal_! And prohibition was only one tiny move in advance, and we've miles to go. I'm glad we're going the rest of the way together. And it wouldn't surprise me in the least if you came out of it Mayor. That's _my_ idea." Mr. Mix, with the faint aroma of cloves in his nostrils, backed away. "Oh, no, I don't dream of _that_ ..." he said. "But I feel as if I'd taken one of the most significant steps of my whole life. I--I think I'd better say good afternoon, Miss Starkweather. I want to be alone--and meditate. You understand?" "Like Galahad," she murmured.