Mr. Theodore Mix, sprawled in his desk chair, gazed with funereal gloom at the typewritten agreement which lay before him, unsigned. It was barely twenty minutes ago that Mr. Mix had risen to welcome the man who was to save his credit and his reputation; but during those twenty minutes Mr. Mix, who had felt that he was sitting on top of the world, had been unceremoniously shot off into space.

His creditors surrounded him, (and because they were small creditors they were inclined to be nasty), he owed money to his New York correspondents, whose letters were becoming peremptory, and his brokerage business was pounding against the rocks. Quietly, overnight he had located a purchaser for the Orpheum, and as soon as Henry’s name had been safe on the dotted line, Mr. Mix would have been financed for many months ahead. And then came Henry––and Henry, who had 88 been cast for the part of the lamb, had suddenly become as obstinate as a donkey. Mr. Mix, gazing at that agreement, was swept by impotent rage at Henry, and he took the document and ripped it savagely across and across, and crumpled it in both his hands, and jammed it into his scrap-basket.

For the moment, he subordinated his personal problems to his wrath at Henry. He charged Henry with full responsibility for this present crisis; for if Henry had simply scribbled his signature, Mr. Mix would have made a good deal of money. It never occurred to him that in the same transaction, Henry would have changed places with Mr. Mix. That was Henry’s look-out. And damn him, he had looked!

“I’m going to get him for that,” said Mr. Mix, half-aloud. “I’m going to get him, and get him good. Jockeying me into a pocket! Conceited young ass! And I’d have been square with the world, and paid off that infernal note, and had four ... thousand ... dollars left over.” His lips made a straight line. “And he’d have brought fifty thousand 89 dollars’ worth of business into this office––he’d have had to––he’d have had to hold up his friends––to protect his ante. Yes, sir, I’m going to get him good.”

Mr. Mix sat up, and emitted a short, mirthless laugh. He frowned thoughtfully: and then, after a little search, he examined the pamphlet which Mirabelle had given him, and skimmed through the pages until he came to the paragraph he had in mind. Enforcement of the Sunday ordinances ... hm!... present ordinance seems to prohibit Sunday theatrical performances of all kinds, but city administrations have always been lax. Want the law on the books, don’t dare to repeal it, but don’t care to enforce it.

Mr. Mix sat back and pondered. He knew enough about the motion-picture business to realize that the Sunday performances made up the backbone of the week. He knew enough about the Orpheum to know that Henry’s quota, which under normal conditions would require only diligence, and initiative, and originality to reach, would be literally impossible if Sundays were taken from the schedule. The League’s 90 blue-law campaign, if it proved successful, would make Henry Devereux even bluer than Mr. Mix. “Three rousing cheers for reform!” said Mr. Mix, and grinned at the pamphlet.

Another brilliant thought infected him. He had long since passed the stage in which women were a mystery to him: he had long since realized that unless a man’s passions intervene, there is nothing more mysterious about women than about men. It was all humbug––all this mummery about intuitions and unerring perception and inscrutability. Women are all alike––all human––all susceptible to sheer, blatant flattery. The only difference in women is in the particular brand of flattery to which, as individuals, they react.

Take Miss Starkweather: he had seen that if he fed her vanity unsparingly––not her physical vanity, but her pride in her own soul, and in her League presidency––she blazed up into a flame which consumed even her purpose in causing the interview. Once already, by no remarkable effort, he had been able to divert her attention; and it was now imperative for him to keep it diverted until he had raised five thousand 91 dollars. And if she were so susceptible, why shouldn’t Mr. Mix venture a trifle further? He knew that she regarded him as an important man; why shouldn’t he let himself be won over, slowly and by her influence alone, to higher things? Stopping, of course, just short of actually becoming a League partisan? Why shouldn’t he feed her fat with ethics and adulation, until she were more anxious for his cooperation than for his money? If he couldn’t play hide-and-seek for six months,––if he couldn’t turn her head so far that she couldn’t bear to press him for payment––he wasn’t the strategist he believed himself to be. But in the meantime, where was he to get the money to live on? Still, Mirabelle came first.

On Sunday, he fortified himself from his meagre supply of contraband, ate two large cloves, and went formally to call on her. He remained an hour, and by exercise of the most finished diplomacy, he succeeded in building up the situation exactly as he had planned it. The note hadn’t been mentioned; the League hadn’t been given a breathing-space; and Mirabelle was pleading with him to see the light, and join the 92 crusade. Finally, she leaned forward and put her hand on his arm.

“Two weeks ago,” she said, “I told the League I was going to give it a real surprise this next Tuesday. What I meant was money. The money for that note. But I’d hate to have you sell any securities when they’re down so low. And besides, anybody can give money––just money. What we need most is men. Let me do something different. You’re one of the big men here. You count for a good deal. We want you. I said I’d give ’em a surprise––let me make the League a present of you.” She bestowed upon him a smile which was a startling combination of sharpness and appeal. “I’m certainly going to keep my promise, Mr. Mix. I’m going to give ’em one or the other––you or the five thousand. Only I tell you in all sincerity, I’d rather it would be you.”

Mr. Mix sat up with a jerk. The climax had been reached six months too soon. “Dear lady––”

“You can’t refuse,” she went on with an emphasis which sobered him. “We want you for an officer, and a director. I’ve taken it up with 93 the committee. And you can’t refuse. You believe everything we believe. Mr. Mix, look me in the eye, and tell me––if you’re true to yourself, how can you refuse?”

“That isn’t it,” he said, truthfully enough. “I––I wouldn’t be as valuable to you as you think.”

“We’ll judge of that.”

He knew that he was in a corner, and he hunted desperately for an opening. “And––in any event, I couldn’t become an officer, or even a director. I––”

“Why not, pray?”

“I haven’t the time, for one thing, nor the experience in––”

She swept away his objections with a stiff gesture. “You’re modest, and it’s becoming. But either you’re with us or against us: there’s no half-way about morals. If you’re with us, you ought to show your colours. And if you are with us, you’ll lead us, because you’re a born leader. You inspire. You instill. And for the sake of the common welfare––” She paused: he was staring at her as if hypnotized. “For the sake of the city and the state and the 94 nation––” His eyes were wide, and filled with a light which deceived her. “For the sake of civic honour and decency and self-respect––”

Mr. Mix cleared his throat. “Yes, but––”

Again, she leaned out and touched his arm. “For my sake?”

Mr. Mix recoiled slightly. “For your sake!” he muttered.

“Yes, for mine. The sister of your oldest friend.”

He owed her five thousand dollars, and if she demanded payment, he was a bankrupt. “Why does it mean so much to you?” he asked, sparring for time.

“It would be an epoch in the history of the League, Mr. Mix.”

“You spoke about leadership. No one can hope to replace yourself.”

“Thank you––I know you mean it. But no woman can lead a campaign such as the one we’re just starting. It takes a strong, dominant man who knows politics. Of course, when we go after dancing and cards and dress-reform, I guess I can do all right, but in this campaign––”

“What campaign is this, Miss Starkweather?”

“Sunday enforcement.”

Mr. Mix pursed his lips. “Really?”

She nodded. “We’re going to concentrate on one thing at a time. That’s first.”

“Close all the theatres and everything?”

“Tight!” she said, and the word was like the lash of a whip. “Tight as a drum.”

Mr. Mix controlled himself rigidly. “You’ll have to pardon my seeming indelicacy, but––” He coughed behind his hand. “That might bring about a very unhappy relationship between my family and yours. Had you thought of it?”

“Henry? Humph! Yes. I’m sorry, but I don’t propose to let my family or anybody else’s stand in the way of my principles. Do you? No. If Henry stands in the way, he’s going to get run over. Mark my words.”

His expression was wooden, but it concealed a thought which had flashed up, spontaneously, to dazzle him. In spite of his age and experience, Mr. Mix threatened to blush. The downfall of 96 Henry meant the elevation of Mirabelle. Mr. Mix himself could assist in swinging the balance. And he couldn’t quite destroy a picture of Mirabelle, walking down the aisle out of step to the wedding march. Her arms were loaded with exotic flowers, of which each petal was a crisp yellow bank-bill. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to snort in deprecation, and he did neither. He was too busy with the consciousness that at last he was in a position to capitalize his information. He knew what nobody else did, outside of Henry and his wife, Mirabelle, Mr. Archer and probably Judge Barklay and if he flung himself into the League’s campaign, what might he now accomplish?

He looked at Mirabelle. Her eyes betrayed her admiration. Mr. Mix drew a very long breath, and in the space of ten seconds thought ahead for a year. The League was ridiculously radical, but if Mr. Mix were appointed to direct it, he was confident that he could keep Mirabelle contented, without making himself too much of a ludicrous figure. All it needed was tact, and foresight. “If I could only spare the 97 time to help you––but you see, this is my dull season––I have to work twice as hard as usual to make an honest dollar––”

“Would you accept an honorarium?”

“Beg pardon?”

“If you took charge of the drive, would you accept a salary? And give us most of your time? Say, four days a week?”

Once more, his thoughts raced through the year. “Now,” he said, presently, “you are making it hard for me to refuse.”

“Only that? Haven’t I made it impossible?”

To Mr. Mix, her tone was almost more of a challenge than an invitation. He looked at her again; and at last he nodded. “I think––you have.”

She held out her hand. “I’ve always respected you as a man. Now I greet you as a comrade. We’ll make this city a place where a pure-minded man or woman won’t be ashamed to live. I tell you, I won’t be satisfied until we reach the ideal! And prohibition was only one tiny move in advance, and we’ve miles to go. I’m glad we’re going the rest of the way 98 together. And it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if you came out of it Mayor. That’s my idea.”

Mr. Mix, with the faint aroma of cloves in his nostrils, backed away.

“Oh, no, I don’t dream of that ...” he said. “But I feel as if I’d taken one of the most significant steps of my whole life. I––I think I’d better say good afternoon, Miss Starkweather. I want to be alone––and meditate. You understand?”

“Like Galahad,” she murmured.

Mr. Mix looked puzzled; he thought she had a cold. But he said no more; he went home to his bachelor apartment, and after he had helped himself to three full fingers of meditation, together with a little seltzer, he smiled faintly, and told himself that there was no use in debating the point––a man with brains is predestined to make progress. But he couldn’t help reflecting that now, more than ever, if any echo of his New York escapades, or any rumour of his guarded habits got to Mirabelle’s ears––or, for that matter, to anybody’s ears at all––his dreams would float away in vapour. Perhaps it 99 would be wise to explain to Mirabelle that he had once been a sinner. She would probably forgive him, and appreciate him all the more. Women do.... It was curious that she had mentioned him as a possible Mayor. It had been his dearest ambition. He wondered if, with his present reputation, and then with the League behind him, there were a ghost of a chance....