"I hope you don't dislike the candles, Mr. Cargan," remarked Miss Norton. "They add such a lot to the romance of the affair, don't you think? I'm terribly thrilled by all this. The rattling of the windows, and the flickering light--two lines of a poem keep running through my head: "'My lord he followed after one who whispered in his ear-- The weeping of the candles and the wind is all I hear.' I don't know who the lord was, nor what he followed--perhaps the seventh key. But the weeping candles and the wind seem so romantic--and so like Baldpate Inn to-night." "If I had a daughter your age," commented Cargan, not unkindly, "she'd be at home reading Laura Jean Libbey by the fire, and not chasing after romance on a mountain." "That would be best for her, I'm sure," replied the girl sweetly. "For then she wouldn't be likely to find out things about her father that would prove disquieting." "Dearie!" cried Mrs. Norton. No one else spoke, but all looked at the mayor. He was busily engaged with his food. Smiling his amusement, Mr. Magee sought to direct the conversation into less personal channels. "We hear so much about romance, especially since its widely advertised death," he said. "And to every man I ever met, it meant something different. Mr. Cargan, speaking as a broad-minded man of the world--what does romance mean to you?" The mayor ran his fingers through his graying hair, and considered seriously. "Romance," he reflected. "Well, I ain't much on the talk out of books. But here's what I see when you say that word to me. It's the night before election, and I'm standing in the front window of the little room on Main Street where the boys can always find me. Down the street I hear the snarl and rumble of bands, and pretty soon I see the yellow flicker of torches, like the flicker of that candle, and the bobbing of banners. And then--the boys march by. All the boys! Pat Doherty, and Bob Larsen, and Matt Sanders--all the boys! And when they get to my window they wave their hats and cheer. Just a fat old man in that window, but they'll go to the pavement with any guy that knocks him. They're loyal. They're for me. And so they march by--cheering and singing--all the boys--just for me to see and hear. Well--that--that's romance to me." "Power," translated Mr. Magee. "Yes, sir," cried the mayor. "I know I've got them. All the reformers in the world can't spoil my thrill then. They're mine. I guess old Napoleon knew that thrill. I guess he was the greatest romancer the world ever knew. When he marched over the mountains with his starving bunch--and looked back and saw them in rags and suffering--for him--well I reckon old Nap was as close to romance then as any man ever gets."