But to-night, from his corner, Hodder seemed to see Mr. Plimpton with new eyes. Not that he stood revealed a villain, which he was far from being; it was the air of sophistication, of good-natured if cynical acceptance of things as they were--and plenty good enough, too!--that jarred upon the rector in his new mood, and it was made manifest to him as never before why his appeals from the pulpit had lacked efficacy. Mr. Plimpton didn't want the world changed! And in this desire he represented the men in that room, and the majority of the congregation of St. John's. The rector had felt something of this before, and it seemed to him astonishing that the revelation had not come to him sooner. Did any one of them, in his heart, care anything for the ideals and aspirations of the Church? As he gazed at them through the gathering smoke they had become strangers, receded all at once to a great distance.... Across the room he caught the name, Bedloe Hubbell, pronounced with peculiar bitterness by Mr. Ferguson. At his side Everett Constable was alert, listening. “Ten years ago,” said a stout Mr. Varnum, the President of the Third National Bank, “if you'd told me that that man was to become a demagogue and a reformer, I wouldn't have believed you. Why, his company used to take rebates from the L. & G., and the Southern--I know it.” He emphasized the statement with a blow on the table that made the liqueur glasses dance. “And now, with his Municipal League, he's going to clean up the city, is he? Put in a reform mayor. Show up what he calls the Consolidated Tractions Company scandal. Pooh!” “You got out all right, Varnum. You won't be locked up,” said Mr. Plimpton, banteringly. “So did you,” retorted Varnum. “So did Ferguson, so did Constable.” “So did Eldon Parr,” remarked another man, amidst a climax of laughter. “Langmaid handled that pretty well.” Hodder felt Everett Constable fidget. “Bedloe's all right, but he's a dreamer,” Mr. Plimpton volunteered. “Then I wish he'd stop dreaming,” said Mr. Ferguson, and there was more laughter, although he had spoken savagely. “That's what he is, a dreamer,” Varnum ejaculated. “Say, he told George Carter the other day that prostitution wasn't necessary, that in fifty years we'd have largely done away with it. Think of that, and it's as old as Sodom and Gomorrah!” “If Hubbell had his way, he'd make this town look like a Connecticut hill village--he'd drive all the prosperity out of it. All the railroads would have to abandon their terminals--there'd be no more traffic, and you'd have to walk across the bridge to get a drink.” “Well,” said Mr. Plimpton, “Tom Beatty's good enough for me, for a while.” Beatty, Hodder knew, was the “boss,” of the city, with headquarters in a downtown saloon.