When a man is telling himself that a woman has made a fool of him in public, and that every one in the neighborhood is amused to watch him, he finds it peculiarly difficult to carry on a conversation with the woman. But Mr. Mix saw that Mirabelle was about to converse, and glowering at a drummer across the aisle, he beat her to it. "Seems to me the League had an almighty gall to wire you for that three thousand dollars, Mirabelle. If it had been _my_ money, I'd have hung on to it until I knew what they wanted it for." She straightened her lips. "Well, it wasn't, was it?--So I didn't, did I?... If I can't have faith in my own associates, who _can_ I have it in? And it isn't a gift; it's a loan. Treasurer said he needed it right off, and there wasn't anybody else to get it from in a hurry." She caught his eyes wandering towards her gorgeous insignia, and her own eyes snapped back at him. "And I hope at least I'm to have the privilege of doing what I choose with my own money. Don't forget that women are _people_, now, just as much as men are. After the first of August, maybe I'll--" "Mirabelle. Sh-h!" "No, I won't either," she retorted. "I don't _care_ to shush. After the first of August, maybe you'll have your share, and I won't presume to interfere with _you_. So don't you interfere with _me_. If the League had to have money, it was for some proper purpose. And it wasn't a gift; it was a loan. And if I couldn't trust--" "Oh, give it a drink!" said Mr. Mix, under his breath; and while he maintained an attitude of courteous attention, he barricaded his ears as best he could, and shut Mirabelle out of his consciousness. Even in Chicago, he had received bulletins from the seat of war; they had merely confirmed his previous knowledge that Henry was beaten, thoroughly and irretrievably. A few more weeks, and Mirabelle would be rich. Half a million? That was the minimum. Three quarters? That was more likely. A million dollars? It wasn't in the least improbable. And Mirabelle had told him more than once, and in plain English, that she planned to divide with him--not equally, but equitably. She had said that she would give him a third of her own inheritance. Hm ... a hundred and fifty to three hundred thousand, say. And what couldn't he do with such a benefice? Of course, he would have to profess some slight interest in the League for awhile, but gradually he could slide out of it--and he hoped that he could engineer Mirabelle out of it. Mirabelle made herself too conspicuous. But even if Mirabelle stuck to her colours, Mr. Mix needn't hesitate to drift away--that is, after he had received his settlement. Late in August, he would make a trip to New York on business--reform business--and in the glare of the flaming-arcs, he would compensate himself for his years of penance. Mirabelle was sharp, but (he smiled reminiscently) in Chicago he had once managed to hoodwink her; and what man has done, man can do. "It's nothing to laugh at, Theodore!"