Was it not for his wife, then; nay, for wifehood itself, that he wrote?
And so, was it quite fair for unmarried Penfield Evans, burning at his
breakfast table a cynical cigarette over the printed philippic, to murmur,
"Gee! old George _has_ spilled the beans!"

Simple words enough and not devoid of friendly concern. But should he not
have divined that George had been appalled to his extremities of speech
by the horrendous vision of his fair young bride being hurled into depths
where she would be obliged, if not to have opinions of her own, at least to
vote with the rabble as he might decide they ought to vote?

And should not other critics known to us have divined the racking anguish
under which George had labored? For one, should not Elizabeth Sheridan,
amateur spinster, have been all sympathy for one who was palpably more an
alarmed bridegroom than a mere candidate?

Should not her maiden heart have been touched by this plausible aspect of
George's dilemma, rather than her mere brain to have been steeled to a
humorous disparagement tinged with bitterness?

And yet, "What rot!" muttered Miss Sheridan,--"silly rot, bally rot, tommy
rot, and all the other kinds!"

Hereupon she creased a brow not meant for creases and defaced an admirable
nose with grievous wrinkles of disdain. "Sacred names of wife and mother!"
This seemed regrettably like swearing as she delivered it, though she
quoted verbatim. "Sacred names of petted imbeciles!" she amended.

Then, with berserker fury, crumpling her _Sentinel_ into a ball, she
venomously hurled it to the depths of a waste basket and religiously rubbed