“It’s difficult to explain, I’m afraid. I had a feeling that a man was trying to do wrong, but I hoped that I was mistaken. It seemed to me that circumstances compelled me to tell the convention all about it, but I was very careful not to hint at my suspicion. Yet the moment I told them they laughed.” “Why?” “Because they felt sure that the man had done wrong.” “Oh!” It was a small exclamation, but the expression Miss De Voe put into it gave it a big meaning. “Then they were laughing at Maguire?” “At the time they were. Really, though, they were laughing at human weakness. Most people seem to find that amusing.” “And that is why you were grieved?” “Yes.” “But why did the papers treat you so badly?” “Mr. Costell tells me that I told too much truth for people to understand. I ought to have said nothing, or charged a bargain right out, for then they would have understood. A friend of—a fellow I used to know, said I was the best chap for bungling he ever knew, and I’m afraid it’s true.” “Do you know Costell? I thought he was such a dishonest politician?” “I know Mr. Costell. I haven’t met the dishonest politician yet.” “You mean?” “He hasn’t shown me the side the papers talk about.” “And when he does?” “I shall be very sorry, for I like him, and I like his wife.” Then Peter told about the little woman who hated politics and loved flowers, and about the cool, able manager of men, who could not restrain himself from putting his arms about the necks of his favorite horses, and who had told about the death of one of his mares with tears in his eyes. “He had his cheek cut open by a kick from one of his horses once, and he speaks of it just as we would speak of some unintentional fault of a child.” “Has he a great scar on his cheek?” “Yes. Have you seen him?” “Once. Just as we were coming out of the convention. He said something about you to a group of men which called my attention to him.” Miss De Voe thought Peter would ask her what it was. “Would you like to know what he said?” she asked, when Peter failed to do so. “I think he would have said it to me, if he wished me to hear it.” Miss De Voe’s mind reverted to her criticism of Peter. “He is so absolutely without our standards.” Her chair suddenly ceased to be comfortable. She rose, saying, “Let us go to the library. I shall not show you my pictures now. The gallery is too big to be pleasant such a night. You must come again for that. Won’t you tell me about some of the other men you are meeting in politics?” she asked when they had sat down before another open fire. “It seems as if all the people I know are just alike—I suppose it’s because we are all so conventional—and I am very much interested in hearing about other kinds.”