"How do you know?" asked Jeff. "He hates politics." "He hates Addington more as it is." They got up and moved to the library, standing about for a moment, while Farvie held the morning paper for a cursory glance, before separating for their different deeds. When Farvie and Anne had gone Jeff took up the paper and Lydia lingered. Jeff felt the force of her silent waiting. It seemed to bore a hole through the paper itself and knock at his brain to be let in. He threw the paper down. "Well?" said he. Lydia was all alive. Her small face seemed drawn to a point of eagerness. She spoke. "Alston Choate isn't the man for mayor." "Who is?" "You." Jeff slowly smiled at her. "I?" he said. "How many votes do you think I'd get?" "All the foreign vote. And the best streets wouldn't vote at all." "Why?" She bit her lip. She had not meant to say it. "No," said Jeff, interpreting for her, "maybe they wouldn't. That's like Addington. It wouldn't stand for me, but it would be too well-bred to stand against me. No, Lyddy, I shouldn't get a show. And I don't want a show. All I want is to bust Weedon Moore." Lydia looked the unmovable obstinacy she felt stiffening every fibre of her. "You're all wrong," she said. "You could have anything you wanted." "Who says so?" "Madame Beattie." "I wish," said Jeff, "that old harpy would go to Elba or Siberia or the devil. I'm not going to run for office." "What are you going to do?" asked Lydia, in a small voice. She was resting a hand on the table, and the hand trembled. "It's a question of what I won't do, at present. I won't go down there to the hall and make an ass of myself talking history and be dished by that old marplot. But if I can get hold of the same men--having previously gagged Madame Beattie or deported her--I'll make them act some plays." "What kind of plays?" "Shakespeare, maybe." "They can't do that. They don't know enough." "They know enough to understand that old rascal's game, whatever it is, and hoot with her when she's done me. And she's given me the tip, with her dramatics up there on the platform, and the way they answered. They're children, and they want to play. She had the cleverness to see it. And they shall play with me." "But they won't act Shakespeare," said Lydia. "They only care about their own countries. That's why they love Madame Beattie." "What are their countries, Lydia?" "Greece, Italy, Poland, Russia--oh, a lot more." "Aren't they voting here in this country?" "Why, yes, ever so many of them." "Then," said Jeff, "this is their country, and this is their language, and they've got to learn some English plays and act them as God pleases. But act them they shall. Or their children shall. And you may give my compliments to Madame Beattie and tell her if she blocks my game I'll block hers. She'll understand. And they've got to learn what England was and what America meant to be till she got on the rocks."