"'Tisn't his going that's such a scandal," she discriminated. "All the men run there. It's the way he goes. This is the ninth time I've known him to wait till Joe Hilliard had left the house." "Looks as if he didn't dote on Joe's society," chuckled Bowers. "I can't say that I do myself." "It's a scandal," repeated Mrs. Bowers, firmly. Her husband remaining indifferent, she assumed her wifely prerogative to pass rigorous judgment upon his conscience. "And it's your plain duty, Seneca Bowers, to speak to him." The old man flung off his newspaper with a snort. "What call have I to set up as a censor of public morals?" he demanded testily. "I'm not Shelby's guardian. He's of age. He's cut his eye teeth. Talk sense, Eliza." Mrs. Bowers essayed a flank attack. "You're the Tuscarora boss, aren't you?" "Yes, I'm county leader." "What you say goes?" "I suppose so." She pushed her Socratic pitfall a step farther. "When you say run so-and-so, he runs, doesn't he?" Bowers permitted himself a dry smile in the dark. "Most generally." "Then you're responsible," she argued triumphantly. "You got Ross Shelby into politics; you've run him for this and that; he's your charge." The Hon. Seneca Bowers turned his disgusted face to the wall. "So you've the Sunday-school idea of politics," he threw over his shoulder with heavy sarcasm. "I'm to teach a Bible class and pass out dinkey little reward-of-merit cards to the prize pupils! Bah!" His wife presently fetched her outdoor wraps and adjusted them before a mirror in the dimly lit hall. "I'm going to take a tumbler of jelly to poor lonely Mrs. Weatherwax," she announced from the door. Bowers roused suddenly. "I hope, Eliza, you don't intend raking them over the coals with her," he protested, rummaging for his slippers; but his consort was beyond hail. A literal transcript of the talk in progress over the way would have confounded the evil thinking; to illustrate the blameless text with an equally faithful record of Shelby's actions might salt the narrative. He had a lawyer's perception of the values of words as words, and through extended practice with Mrs. Hilliard excelled in that deft juggling of pregnant trifles without which Platonic friendships must die of inanition. He now thanked the lady for her successful coup at the club without specifically naming it--to hint at prearrangement were too fatuous; and Mrs. Hilliard admired his tact. Parenthetically she reflected that Joe had no tact. Without specifically naming it, Shelby contrived to suggest that she could do him yet greater service by shepherding society at his ratification meeting. "To be significant, that sort of thing should be broadly representative," said he. His words were impersonal, but there was no misreading his look. Mrs. Hilliard offered her aid with equal thrift of speech and prodigality of glance. She rejoiced in transparent subtleties. Joe was never subtle.