In spite of which he went out whistling, and dosed the door in a defiant
manner.




CHAPTER III

BY FANNIE HURST


Destiny, busybody that she is, has her thousand irons in her perpetual
fires, turning, testing and wielding them.

While Miss Betty Sheridan, for another scornful time, was rereading the
well-thumbed copy of the _Sentinel_, her fine back arched like a prize
cat's, George Remington in his small mahogany office adjoining, neck low
and heels high, was codifying, over and over again, the small planks of his
platform, stuffing the knot holes which afforded peeps to the opposite side
of the issue with anti-putty, and planning a bombardment of his pattest
phrases for the complete capitulation of his Uncle Jaffry.

While Genevieve Remington in her snug library, so eager in her wifeliness
to clamber up to her husband's small planks, and if need be, spread her
prettily flounced skirts over the rotting places, was memorizing, with
more pride than understanding, extracts from the controversial article
for quotation at the Woman's Club meeting, Mr. Penfield Evans, with
a determination which considerably expanded his considerable chest
measurement, ran two at a bound up the white stone steps of Mrs. Gallup's