In the past the Luke Pressons of the State had laughed at interference by a Governor. Local politics, easily handled, had controlled the actions of cities, and police had kept their hands off the traffic for years. Authority in liquor matters had been vested in the county high sheriffs, and these men were controlled from State headquarters wholly in the interests of politics. Harlan was sufficiently familiar with the old plan to know how this new system would upset the entire political machine of his State. That folio of document was a bombshell. He was holding it outspread in his hands when the door opened so suddenly that it startled him. Thelismer Thornton came in, shaking his shoulders disgustedly. "Feathers and cackle!" he muttered. "This State House turned into a poultry yard! And half of 'em braced back trying to crow! When a hen crows and a woman votes--well, it's all the same thing!" He relighted the cigar that he had brought through the press hidden in his big palm. He eyed his grandson keenly and with some disfavor as he puffed the cigar alight. "Look here, bub," he burst out, "there are enough women around here to-day to remind me that I want to have a word with you on the woman question. You intend to marry Madeleine Presson, don't you?" "_Intend_ to marry her!" blazed his grandson. "You talk as though it was the fashion to grab a girl and carry her off as they did in the Stone Age." "You know what I mean very well, sir. I take it you are still decent, and if you're decent you'll marry the girl you've beaued around for six months--providing she'll have you. That was the style in my day--and decency doesn't change much--at least, it ought not to." Had it been the day before, Harlan Thornton would have declared to his grandfather what his intentions were toward Madeleine Presson. The thoughts of the past night's vigil came upon him now--he hesitated. He was angry with himself--angry with this blunt and persistent old man. He did not know whether resentment held him back from acknowledging that he had been a suitor for the hand of Luke Presson's daughter or whether it was the strange, new feeling toward Clare Kavanagh since he had learned that her good name was in such piteous need of his protection and defence. "Have you asked her to marry you?" demanded the Duke. "Yes, I have--that is--" he paused. His air irritated still more the testy humor of the old man, plainly provoked by earlier matters. "'That is'!" he sneered. "'I have.' 'Perhaps I have!' 'Maybe I have--let's see what my notes say!' What in the devil is the matter with the young men nowadays, anyway? Blood in your veins about as thick as Porty Reek molasses! You say you have asked her to marry you? Well, if you've asked her and mean it, have you got anything to do with that Kavanagh girl being around this State House to-day?"