“Humph!” grunted Perkins.  “It is difficult to please women.  You hate war because, to settle a question of right, people go out into the field of battle and mow each other down with guns; you cry for arbitration.  Let all questions, all differences of opinion, be settled by a resort to reason, say you—­which is beautiful, and undoubtedly proper.  But when we try to settle our differences by a bloodless warfare, in which the ballot is one’s ammunition, you cry down with politics.  A political contest is nothing but a bit of supreme arbitration, for which you peace people are always clamoring, by the court of last resort, the people.”  Mrs. Perkins smiled sweetly, and taking her husband’s hand in hers, stroked it softly.

“Teddy dear, you mustn’t be so politic with me,” she said; “I’m not a campaign club.  I know that sentiment you have just expressed is lofty and noble, and ought to be true, and I know we used to think it was true—­three weeks ago I believed it when you said it; but this is now, dear.  This is to-night, not three weeks ago, and I have changed my mind.”

“Well,” began the candidate, hesitatingly, “I don’t know but that I am weakening a trifle myself.”

“I know,” interposed Mrs. Perkins, “you are weakening.  You know as well as I do that the hard work you are doing is not in appealing to the reason of the supreme court of arbitration, the people.  You are appealing, as you have said, yourself, to a large and interesting variety of balances of power, that do not want your views or your opinions or your arguments, but they do want your money to buy cigars and beer with.  They want you to buy their good-will; and even if you bought it, I doubt if they would concede to you a controlling interest in it if Mr. Haskins should happen to want some of it, and I don’t doubt he does.”

“You don’t know anything—­” the candidate ventured.

“Yes I do, too,” returned Mrs. Perkins, with the self-satisfied nod which the average new woman gives when she thinks she is right, though Mrs. Perkins had no pretensions in that direction, happily for her family.  “I know all that you have told me.  I know that when you were to dine at Colonel Buckley’s on Wednesday night you wore your evening dress, and that when leaving there early to go to the city and address the Mohawk Independent Club you asked your manager if you could go dressed as you were, and his answer was, ‘Not on your life,’ and you went home and put on your business suit.  You told me that yourself, and yet you talk about the supreme court of arbitration, the people!”

“But, Bess, the Mohawks are a powerful organization,” pleaded Perkins.  “I couldn’t afford to offend them.”

“No.  It was the first balance of power that turned up.  I remember it well.  It was to be convinced by arguments.  You were going down there to discuss principles, but you couldn’t appeal to their judicial minds or reach their reason unless you changed your clothes; and when you got there as their guest, and ventured to ask for a glass of Vichy before you spoke, do you remember what they brought you?” demanded Mrs. Perkins, warming up to her subject.