the burden of a fresh caress. The little fingers, grown wary, however,
were in discreet retirement behind Dorothy, as, with her back to the
window, she stood facing him. Defeated in his campaign against the
fingers before it had begun, Richard was driven to discuss Dorothy's
work-a-day resolves.

"Newspaper work? Do society, I suppose?"

Richard had gotten hold of the idioms of the craft, and spoke of "doing
society" as though reared among the types.

"No, not society," and Dorothy shook her head. "I'd pick 'em to pieces,
the minxes; and the papers don't want that. No, I'm going to learn about
politics with Uncle Pat. I shall write politics. You must teach me."

Richard said he would.

"Only you should know," said he, "that I need a deal of teaching
myself."

"But you can write!" cried Dorothy, her hands emerging from their
retreat to clasp each other in a glow of admiration. "I've read your
letters. They remind me of Carlyle's 'French Revolution.'"

This staggered Richard; was his idol laughing at him? A glance into her
eyes showed only a darkened enthusiasm; whereat Richard puffed and
swelled. Perhaps his _Daily Tory_ letters did have the rhetorical tread
of the Scotchman's masterpiece. In any event it was pleasant to have
Dorothy think so. Before he could frame his modesty to fit reply, the
cumbrous retreat of Senator Loot was overheard.