the feel of it from her fingers. As she had not even glanced at the column
headed "Births, Deaths, Marriages," it will be seen that her agitation was
real. And surely a more discerning sympathy might have been looked for from
the seasoned Martin Jaffry. A bachelor full of years and therefore with
illusions not only unimpaired but ripened, who more quickly than he should
have divined that his nephew for the moment viewed all womankind as but one
multiplied Genevieve, upon whom it would be heinous to place the shackles
of suffrage?

Perhaps Uncle Martin did divine this. Perhaps he was a mere trimmer, a rank
side-stepper, steeped in deceit and ever ready to mouth the abominable
phrase "political expediency." It were rash to affirm this, for no analyst
has ever fathomed the heart of a man who has come to his late forties a
bachelor by choice. One may but guess from the ensuing meager data.

Uncle Martin at a certain corner of Maple Avenue that morning, fell in
with Penfield Evans, who, clad as the lilies of a florist's window, strode
buoyantly toward his office, the vision of his day's toil pinkly suffused
by an overlaying vision of a Betty or Sheridan character. Mr. Evans bubbled
his greeting. "Morning! Have you seen it? Oh, _say_, have you seen it?"

The immediate manner of Uncle Martin not less than his subdued garb of
gray, his dark gloves and his somber stick, intimated that he saw nothing
to bubble about.

"He has burned his bridges behind him." The speaker looked as grim as any
bachelor-by-choice ever may.

"Regular little fire-bug," blithely responded Mr. Evans, moderating his
stride to that of the other.