She had to take her thought away from the presence of all these people. She wanted to con it over--she must get away. Suddenly she stood up and the heat and distaste for food--the accurate sight of a piece of brown stringy meat, embedded in lifeless gravy, sickened her. She pressed her hand before her eyes and swayed a little. Mrs. Nesbitt jumped up with Cele. “She’s sick--poor dear. The heat now has quite overcome her.” They helped her into the least hot of the little bedrooms and she found herself very sick--nauseated--chilled even while she was conscious of the heat that oppressed while it did not warm her. The family was all astir. Mr. Nesbitt underwent censure for having bothered her. But when Freda, apologetic and recovered, went home on Mike’s arm, getting the first breath of air which came as a relief to the hot city, Mrs. Nesbitt came into the room where Cele hung half out of the window trying to catch the breeze. “Sick she was, poor thing.” “Rotten heat got her. She’s not used to working, either, I think. She felt a lot better. Her stomach got upset too.” Mrs. Nesbitt pressed her lips together. “It was a funny way she was taken. If she was a married woman I should have said the cause was not the heat.” “Huh?” said Cele, pulling herself in. “What’s that you mean?” “I mean nothing,” said Mrs. Nesbitt. “Nothing at all. Only I would have you always be sure to make sure your friends are good girls, my darlin’. Mind ye, I say nothing against the young lady. But she’s a pretty and dangerous face and she’s away from her home where by rights should every girl be.” CHAPTER XV THE CONVENTION I The Convention gathered. It was an event signal enough to make an impress even on the great city. Convention Week was recognized by every one, hotel men, shop keepers, railroad men, newspapers, pickpockets, police, students in the great universities at the city’s gates, and the great subordinate multitude which read the newspapers and accepted the ruling of politics or commerce, as to which days should be held apart--Labor Day, Mother’s Day, Convention Week. The streets were hung with banners, great, swinging canvas pieces of propaganda, bearing crude likenesses of candidates and still cruder catchwords supposed to represent their opinions or those of their opinions likely to excite popular pleasure. In the hotel lobbies men swarmed. Desk clerks, sated with patronage, gave smiling and condescending negations to those who applied for rooms. The girls at the cigar counters and newspaper stands worked steadily, throwing back saucy rejoinders to the occasional impudences of the men.