"My dear," he said, coming round where she stood, "we differ on fundamentals. The whole nation to-day is divided on fundamentals. I'm no mealy mouth to curse plutocracy in order to please the mob. Plutocracy fills the workman's dinner pail and keeps the mills going and opens the mines and builds the railroads. Mobocracy, your grubby corn cob and trashy roses, that, what does it do? Mouthe and mouthe and try to pull down what is above it! It will have to be fought out! No? It will not be another French Revolution! _Our bullets are ballots, nowadays_; and the American people get exactly the form of Government which they want. If they want another form, it remains with them to fight for it. The umpire of all is fact--Miss Eleanor; and the facts of each side will have to be fought out; the better man will win; be sure of that! _The facts that are facts not fictions will win, with ballots for bullets_. For my part, I'll not dodge the issue; and I hope you'll not think me any the less of the hero for that?" He had extended his hand as he talked, and to her surprise, she found herself taking it when with a wave of revulsion, the memory of the Ridge and the Rim Rocks came back. "And government is a mere game of politics?" she said. "And politics resolves itself into brute force; and a murder more or less doesn't matter? Fordie, I suppose, would be classed as one of the scrubs sacrificed for this perfection of party?" His hand dropped hers as if she had struck him. "You did not know that you were overheard? 'See that no harm comes to the boy.' You did not mean Fordie to be murdered; but they were to crowd the sheep over 'to beat Hell,' 'the sheep were to go it blind'--my father's and Mr. Williams' property was to be sacrificed to build up the fortune of the cattle barons: they too, I suppose, are scrubs sacrificed among the many for the wealth of the one, who happens to be yourself. You broke the law; but because you did not order Fordie's murder, you think the blood guiltiness from that broken law does not rest upon you. You say it must all be fought out. You force the fight--" He raised his hand to stop her. She remembered afterwards how ashy white and aged his face became. He walked to the door and opened it. She passed out. So that was to what her womanish mining for the vein of the ideal heroism had led. She had been politely shown out. It was as Wayland had said: there was no middle course; and it was also as the Senator had said, it must be fought out, and the bullets were to be ballots. The Senator slammed his door shut and snapped the yale lock. Then he noticed the rose she had left, and tossed it in the spittoon. "Thank God," he ejaculated fervently as he sank back in the swing chair, "_Thank God women are not in politics. There is always something to be thankful for_."