Miss Mirabelle Starkweather lifted up her cup of tea, and with the little finger of her right hand stiffly extended to Mr. Mix’s good health. Mr. Mix, sitting upright in a gilded chair which was three sizes too small for him, bowed with a courtliness which belonged to the same historical period as the chair, and also drank. Over the rim of his cup, his eyes met Mirabelle’s.

“Seems to me you’ve got on some kind of a new costume, haven’t you?” asked Mr. Mix gallantly. “Looks very festive to me––very.”

For the first time since bustles went out of fashion, Miss Starkweather blushed; and when she blushed, she was quite as uncompromising about it as she was about everything else. It wasn’t that she had a grain of romance in her, but that she was confused to be caught in the act of flagging a beau; to hide her confusion, she rose, and went over to the furthest window 197 and flung it wide open. The month was February, and the air was chill and raw, but Mirabelle could think of no other pretext for turning her back and cooling her cheeks. And yet, although she would have perjured herself a thousand times before she would admit it, she felt a certain strange, spring-like pleasure to know that Mr. Mix was only pretending to be deceived.

“Oh, my, no,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ve had this since the Flood.”

Mr. Mix had also risen, to hand her back to her seat, and now he stood looking down at her. She was wearing a gown of rustling, plum-coloured taffeta, with cut-steel buttons; and at her belt there was a Dutch silver chÂtelaine which had been ultra-smart when she had last worn it. Vaguely, she supposed that it was ultra-smart today, and that was the reason she had attached it to her. From the chÂtelaine depended a silver pencil, a gold watch, a vinaigrette with gold-enamelled top, and a silver-mesh change-purse. At her throat, she had a cameo, and on her left hand, an amethyst set in tiny pearls. Mr. Mix, finishing the inventory, seated himself and began 198 to tap one foot on the floor, reflectively. He was a man of perception, and he knew warpaint when he saw it.

“Makes you look so much younger,” said Mr. Mix, and sighed a little.

“Don’t be a fool,” said Miss Starkweather, and to dissemble her pleasure, she put an extra-sharp edge on her voice. “I don’t wear clothes to make me look younger; I wear ’em to cover me up.”

“That’s more than I can say for the present generation.”

“Ugh!” said Miss Starkweather. “Don’t speak of it! Shameless little trollops! But the worst comment you could make about this present day is that men like it. They like to see those disgraceful get-ups. They marry those girls. Beyond me.”

Mr. Mix sneezed unexpectedly. There was a cold draught on the back of his neck, but as Mirabelle said nothing about closing the window, he hesitated to ask permission. “I’ve always wondered what effect it would have had on your––public career––if you hadn’t preferred to remain single.”

“My opinions aren’t annuals, Mr. Mix. They’re hardy perennials.”

“I know, but do you think a married woman ought to devote herself entirely to public affairs? Shouldn’t she consider marriage almost a profession in itself?”

“Well, I don’t know about that. Duty’s duty.”

“Oh, to be sure. But would marriage have interfered with your career? Would you have let it? Or is marriage really the higher duty of the two?”

“There’s something in that, Mr. Mix. I never did believe a married woman ought to be in the road all the time.”

“It was a question of your career, then?”

Mirabelle put down her cup. “Humph! No, it wasn’t. Right man never asked me.”

Mr. Mix’s mind was on tiptoe. “But your standards are so lofty––naturally, they would be.” He paused. “I wonder what your standard really is. Is it––unapproachable? Or do you see some good in most of us?”

Mirabelle sat primly erect, but her voice had an unusual overtone. “Oh, no, I’m not a ninny. 200 But good husbands don’t grow on goose-berry bushes. If I’d ever found a man that had the right principles, and the respect of everybody, and not too much tom-foolishness––a good, solid, earnest citizen I could be proud of––”

Mr. Mix interpolated a wary comment. “You didn’t mention money.”

She sniffed. “Do I look like the kind of a woman that would marry for money?”

“And in all these––I mean to say, haven’t you ever met a man who complied with these conditions?”

She made no intelligible response, but as Mr. Mix watched her, he was desperately aware that his moment had come. His next sentence would define his future.

He was absolutely convinced, through his private source of information, that Henry was due to fall short of his quota by four or five thousand dollars; nothing but a miracle could save him, and Mr. Mix was a sceptic in regard to miracles. He was positive that in a brief six months Miss Starkweather would receive at least a half million; and Mr. Mix, at fifty-five, wasn’t the type of man who could expect to 201 have lovely and plutocratic dÉbutantes thrown at his head. He believed––and his belief was cousin to a prayer––that Mirabelle was absorbed in reform only because no one was absorbed in Mirabelle. Indeed, she had implied, a few moments ago, that marriage would cramp her activities; but it was significant that she hadn’t belittled the institution. Perhaps if she were skilfully managed, she might even be modernized. Certainly she had been content, so far, to be guided by Mr. Mix’s conservatism. He hoped that he was right, and he trusted in his own strategy even if he were wrong. And every day that he continued moderate in his public utterances, and in his actions, he was a day nearer to the golden ambition of an elective office.

He was threatened with vertigo but he mastered himself, and drew a long, long breath in farewell to his bachelorhood.

“You have heartened me more than you know,” said Mr. Mix, with ecclesiastical soberness. “Because––it has been my poverty––which has kept me silent.” He bent forward. “Mirabelle, am I the right man?” Almost by 202 sheer will-power, he rose and came to her, and took her hand. She shrank away, in maiden modesty, but her fingers remained quiescent. Mr. Mix sneezed again, and stooped to kiss her cheek, but Mirabelle avoided him.

“No,” she said, with a short laugh. “That don’t signify––I don’t approve of it much.” She wavered, and relented. “Still, I guess it’s customary––Theodore.”

Before he left her, they had staged their first altercation––it could hardly be called a quarrel, because it was too one-sided. Mirabelle had asked him without the slightest trace of shyness, to telephone the glad tidings to the Herald; and of a sudden, Mr. Mix was afflicted with self-consciousness. Unfortunately, he couldn’t give a valid reason for it; he couldn’t tell her that illogically, but instinctively, he wanted to keep the matter as a locked secret––and especially to keep it locked from Henry Devereux––until the minister had said: Amen. He admitted to himself that this was probably a foolish whim, 203 a needless precaution, but nevertheless it obsessed him, so that he tried to argue Mirabelle away from the Herald. His most cogent argument was that the announcement might weaken their position in the League––the League might be too much interested in watching the romance to pay strict attention to reform.

“Humph!” said Mirabelle. “I’m not ashamed of being congratulated. Are you? But if you’re so finicky about it, I’ll do the telephoning myself.”

Whereupon Mr. Mix went back to his room, and drank two highballs, and communed with himself until long past midnight.

In the morning, with emotions which puzzled him, he turned to the society column of the Herald; and when he saw the flattering paragraph in type,––with the veiled hint that he might be the next candidate for Mayor, on a reform ticket––he sat very still for a moment or two, while his hand shook slightly. No backward step, now! His head was in the noose. He wondered, with a fresh burst of self-effacement, what people would say about it. One thing––they wouldn’t accuse him of the truth. Nobody 204 but Mr. Mix himself knew the whole truth––unless perhaps it were Henry Devereux. Henry had developed a knowing eye. But Henry didn’t count––Henry was beaten already. Still, if Henry should actually come out and accuse Mr. Mix of––why, what could Henry accuse him of? Simply marrying for money? If it didn’t make any difference to Mirabelle, it certainly didn’t to Mr. Mix. And what booted the rest of the world? Why should he concern himself with all the petty spite and gossip of a town which wasn’t even progressive enough to have an art museum or a flying field, to say nothing of a good fight-club? Let ’em gossip.... But just the same, he wished that Mirabelle had been willing to keep the engagement a secret. Mr. Mix was sure to encounter Henry, once in a while, at the Citizens Club, and he didn’t like to visualize Henry’s smile.

He was in the act of tossing away the paper when his attention was snatched back by a half-page advertisement; in which the name of the Orpheum Theatre stood out like a red flag. Mr. Mix glanced at it, superciliously, but a moment later, his whole soul was strung on it.

THE ORPHEUM
Educational Motion Pictures
FREE! FREE! FREE!
Every Sunday afternoon and evening
ESPECIALLY HIGH-CLASS ENTERTAINMENT
of instructive and educational features
With Sacred Music
ABSOLUTELY FREE

to all those who present at the door ticket-stubs from the previous week’s performances (bargain matinees excepted) showing a total expenditure of Three Dollars.

IN OTHER WORDS
Two people coming twice during the week,
in 75 cent seats, come FREE Sunday
Three people coming twice during the week,
in 50 cent seats, come FREE Sunday
A PURELY VOLUNTARY COLLECTION
will be taken up and divided between
The Associated Charities
The Starving Children of Belgium and
The Chinese Famine Fund
This Sunday
206
THE SWORDMAKER’S SON––an absorbing drama
of Biblical days
Next Sunday
BEN-HUR, in seven reels
NO ADMISSION FEE BEING CHARGED, AND
ALL VOLUNTARY CONTRIBUTIONS BEING DEVOTED
TO CHARITY, THIS ENTERTAINMENT
DOES NOT FALL WITHIN ANY CITY ORDINANCE
PROHIBITING SUNDAY PERFORMANCES
THE ORPHEUM
Motion Pictures

Mr. Mix, goggle-eyed, jumped for the telephone, and called the City Hall, but as soon as the Mayor was on the wire, Mr. Mix wrestled down his excitement, and spoke in his embassy voice. “Hello––Rowland? This is Mix. I want to ask you if you’ve seen an ad of the Orpheum Theatre in this morning’s paper?... Well, what do you propose to do about it?”

The Mayor answered him in a single word: Mr. Mix started, and gripped the receiver more tightly. “Nothing!... Why, I don’t quite get you on that.... It’s an open and shut 207 proposition––No, I most certainly am not trying to make a pun; I’m calling you up in my official capacity. That’s the most flagrant, barefaced attempt to evade a law––Why, an idiot could see it! It’s to drive the crowd into the Orpheum during the week, so that––”

He listened, with increasing consternation. “Who says it isn’t a violation? Who? The City Attorney?” Mr. Mix was pale; and this was quite as uncommon as for his fiancÉe to blush. “When did he say so?... What’s that? What’s his grounds?... Repeat it, if you don’t mind––Practically a charitable performance by invitation––”

“Why, sure,” said the Mayor. He realized perfectly that Mr. Mix had the League and another thousand people of small discernment behind him, but the Mayor didn’t want to be re-elected, and did want to retire from politics. “The Orpheum doesn’t say a fellow that comes Sunday has got to prove he spent the money for the tickets, does it? Anybody that’s got the stubs can come. They’re just as much invitations as if they were engraved cards sent around in swell envelopes. If you’ve got 208 one––whether you paid for the invitation or not, or if you got it in the mail or picked it up on the street, you can go on in. And as long’s no money’s taken in over the counter, the City Attorney says it’s O.K. Of course, you can petition the Council, if you want to.”

Mr. Mix was licking his lips feverishly. “I’m obliged to you for your advice. We will petition the Council––I’ll have it signed, sealed and delivered by noon today.... And if that don’t do, we’ll apply for an injunction.... And we’ll carry this to the Governor before we’re done with it, Rowland, and you know what state laws we’ve got to compel a Mayor of an incorporated city to do his duty!... This is where we part company, Rowland. You’ll hear from me later!” He slammed down the receiver, rattled the hook impetuously, and called Mirabelle’s number.

“Mirabelle ... good-morning; have you ... No, I’m not cross at you, but––Oh! Good-morning, dear.... This is important. Have you seen the Orpheum’s ad in the Herald? Isn’t that the most barefaced thing you ever saw? Don’t we want to rush in and––”

She interrupted him. “Why, no, not when it’s for charity, do we?”

Mr. Mix nearly dropped the receiver. “Charity! Charity your grandmother! It’s a cheap trick to attract people during the week, so they’ll have a show on Sunday in spite of the law!”

“Oh, I don’t doubt there’s some catch in it. That’s Henry all over. But if the League went out and interfered with an educational and sort of religious program with a collection for charity, we’d–––”

“Yes, but my dear woman, would we sanction a dance for charity? A poker-party? A wine-supper? We–––”

“But there won’t be any dancing or drinking or card-playing at the Orpheum, will there?”

He lost his temper. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see––?”

“No, but I can hear pretty well,” said Mirabelle. “I’m not deaf. And seems to me––” She sniffled. “Seems to me you’re making an awful funny start of things, Theodore.”

“My dear girl––”

“What?”

“I just said ‘my dear girl.’ I–––”

“Say it again, Theodore!”

To himself, Mr. Mix said something else, but for Mirabelle’s benefit, he began a third time. “My dear girl, it’s simply to evade the law, and–––”

“But Theodore, if we lift one finger to stop the raising of money for the poor starving children in foreign countries, we’d lose every scrap of influence we’ve gained.”

“But this means that all the theatres can open again!”

“Well, maybe you’d better get to work and frame the amendment to Ordinance 147 we’ve been talking about, then. And the new statute, too. We’ve wasted too much time. But under the old one, we can’t go flirting with trouble. And if all they do is show pictures like Ben-Hur, and The Swordmaker’s Son, why ... don’t you see? We just won’t notice this thing of Henry’s. We can’t afford to act too narrow.... And I’m not cross with you any more. You were all worked up, weren’t you? I’ll excuse you. And I could just hug you for being so worked up in the interests of the 211 League. I didn’t understand.... When are you coming up to see me? I’ve been awfully lonesome––since yesterday.”

Mr. Mix hung up, and sat staring into vacancy. Out of the wild tumult of his thoughts, there arose one picture, clear and distinct––the picture of his five thousand dollar note. Whatever else happened, he couldn’t financially afford, now or in the immediate future, to break with Mirabelle. She would impale him with bankruptcy as ruthlessly as she would swat a fly; she would pursue him, in outraged pride, until he slept in his grave. And on the other hand, if certain things did happen––at the Orpheum––how could he spiritually afford to pass the remainder of his life with a militant reformer who wouldn’t even have money to sweeten her disposition––and Mr. Mix’s. He wished that he had put off until tomorrow what he had done, with such conscious foresight, only yesterday.