Grace did not hear from H.R. the next morning as she fully expected. Since expectation is disguised desire, she was vexed by his silence. She had conquered. Why did he not acknowledge?

She obeyed what she would have called a sudden impulse of no particular significance and called up his office. Andrew Barrett answered. He told her that H.R. had gone away—nobody knew whither—and would not return until the following Thursday.

H.R.'s move was so mysterious that it could mean but one thing: He was running away!

Merely to make sure of it, she went to Jerry's at one o'clock. The northeast corner table was there, but not H.R. However, she sat down and waited.

She ordered her luncheon herself, irritated at having to do what he should have done. If it was business that kept H.R. away, she ought to know it. The right to know everything was part of the spoils. When he came back there would be no more ignorance—ever again!

At three o'clock she went home. But as the days passed she became uneasy. H.R. was the only human being she completely dominated. Brooding on his inexplicable absence, her thoughts came more and more to take the form of the question that victrices always ask of high Heaven: "Have I lost him?"

That made her love him.

At noon on the 20th of May he telephoned to her:

"Meet me at the Plaza at four—for tea. Don't fail! Good-by!"

"Wait!" she exclaimed, angrily, rebellion surging within her by reason of his dictatorial tone of voice. She had been very anxious to see him, but not at that price.

He had wisely hung up the receiver, however. That compelled her to do what he had told her to do. She had something to say to him.

She found him sitting at a small table in the Palm Room. Ethel Vandergilt and Reggie Van Duzen were with him. She approached him frowning, because she ran the usual gantlet of stares, and overheard the usual murmurs: "That's Grace Goodchild! Do you think she is as pretty as—"

Ethel greeted her affectionately, and Reggie looked proud to be there. He was a worshipper of the dynamic H.R. But all that H.R. himself said, in his exasperatingly peremptory voice, was:

"Month is up to-day. Now for the test! Tell Ethel you want some sandwiches!"

Grace started slightly and realized that Ethel had not overheard H.R.—he had taken care that she should not.

"No! I—I'm afraid, Hendrik," she stammered, turning pale. Women love to gamble—in their minds, when alone.

"You? Afraid? Of anything?" He looked at her in pained amazement. "Look at me!"

She did.

"I—I'll marry you any—anyway," she said, to show it was not cowardice, but the reverse.

"Play the game!" he said, sternly.

Before she knew it she obeyed. She sat down limply and said:

"Ethel, I w-want a s-s-sandwich!"

"You poor thing! You're actually faint with hunger. Don't you want some bouillon? Waiter!"

"No; I want a sandwich!" said Grace, loudly. You would have thought she had said, "Jacta est alea!"

Ethel and Reggie heard Grace use that word. People all about them knew who she was and had proudly told their out-of-town companions all about H.R. and Grace Goodchild. They, too, heard Grace say she wanted a sandwich.

Not a soul smiled! Not having seen anything about it in the newspapers for a month, New York had forgotten that H.R. had wooed Grace with sandwiches. H.R. was as famous as ever, but his fellow-citizens no longer knew why or how.

The waiter took the order with unsmiling respect. Grace looked at H.R. almost with awe. He smiled reassuringly and asked her:

"Aren't you going to ask Ethel?"

"Ask me what?" said Ethel.

Grace was silent, because she was blushing like a silly thing in public.

"On the eighth of June," said H.R. "I suppose you won't mind being a—"

Ethel naturally interrupted him by saying to Grace:

"I'm so glad! Is it announced?"

"You're the first one we've told, dear girl," H.R. declared, solemnly. "Reggie, you will give me courage at the altar?"

"Will I?" chuckled Reggie, proudly, and insisted on shaking hands.

H.R. rewarded him. He said:

"Reggie, I'm going to let you help me in my campaign. I'm going to the Assembly in the autumn."

"Albany!" said Reggie, enthusiastically. "First stop on the way to Washington! There was Cleveland—and Roosevelt; and now—"

"Oh, Hendrik!" gasped Grace. She would help him all she could—at the receptions.

Then she looked at Ethel to see whether she, also, understood national politics. Ethel did. She said, with conviction:

"And we'll all vote for him, too!"

The waiter laid a plate of sandwiches before Grace.

H.R. stared at them—a long time, as though he were crystal-gazing. He saw the labor-unions, the churches, the aristocracy, the bankers, the newspapers, the thoughtless, and the hungry; and all were with him and for him. He was the only man the Socialists really feared. If he was H.R. to New York, why should he not become H.R. to the nation?

He saw himself on the steps of the Capitol on a 4th of March. It was typical Rutgers weather. The mighty sun was trying its best to please him and incidentally tranquilizing Big Business by shining goldenly. The clouds, however, were pure silver—with an eye to the retail trade.

In the distance he saw the monument erected with infinite pains to the one American who could not tell a lie. It was a great white finger pointing straight at heaven. It was as though George Washington's stupendous gesture meant, "That is where I got it from!"

That is the place from which everything good comes. It should not be difficult, H.R. thought, to convince his fellow-Americans of it. They had been accustomed to reading, every day, "In God we trust." It was on all the dollars.

"Hendrik!" said Grace.

H.R. started from his dream and passed his hand over his eyes.

"Grace," he said to her resolutely, "my work is just beginning!"

THE END