wife. Mrs. ¬ÝCresswell was more unsatisfied than usual. She could not help feeling that Mr. ¬ÝCresswell was treating her about as he treated his wine‚ÅÝ‚Äîas an indulgence; a loved one, a regular one, but somehow not as the reality and prose of life, unless‚ÅÝ‚Äîshe started at the thought‚ÅÝ‚Äîhis life was all indulgence. Having nothing else to do, she went out and paraded the streets, watching the people who were happy enough to be busy.
Cresswell and Stillings had a long conference, and when Stillings hastened away he could not forbear cutting a discreet pigeon-wing as he rounded the corner. He had been promised the backing of the whole Southern delegation in his schemes.
That night Teerswell called on him in his modest lodgings, where over hot whiskey and water they talked.
“The damned Southern upstart,” growled Teerswell, forgetting Stillings’ birthplace. “Do you mean to say he’s actually slated for the place?”
“He’s sure of it, unless something turns up.”
“Well, who’d have dreamed it?” Teerswell mixed another stiff dram.
“And that isn’t all,” came Sam Stillings’ unctuous voice.
Teerswell glanced at him. “What else?” he asked, pausing with the steaming drink poised aloft.
“If I’m not mistaken, Alwyn intends to marry Miss Wynn.”
‚ÄúYou lie!‚Äù the other suddenly yelled with an oath, overturning his tumbler and striding across the floor. ‚ÄúDo you suppose she‚Äôd look at that black‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù