Frank learned much of her past.  She could barely remember the father, who was a circus acrobat and had been killed by a fall from a trapeze.  Her mother had retired from the stage; she was doing needlework for the department stores and the Woman’s Exchange.

“Every morning she teaches me grammar,” said Aleta.  “Mother’s never wanted me to talk slang like the other girls.  She says if you’re careless with your English you get careless of your principles.  Mother’s got a lot of quaint ideas like that.”

Again came her rippling laugh.  Frank grew to enjoy her; look forward to the nightly fifteen minutes of companionship.  They never met anywhere else.  But when an illness held Aleta absent for a week the Dusty Doughnut seemed a lonesome place.

Bertha twitted Frank upon his absent-mindedness one evening as he dined with her.  By an effort he shook off his vagary of the other girl.  He loved Bertha.  But, for some unfathomed cause, she held him off.  Never had she let him reach a declaration.

“We’re such marvelous friends!...  Can’t we always be that—­just that?”

* * * * *

Things drifted on.  Schmitz, as a Mayor, caused but small remark.  He reminded Frank of a rustic, sitting at a banquet board and watching his neighbors before daring to pick up a fork or spoon.  But Ruef went on building his fences.  Union Labor was now a force to deal with.  And Ruef was Union Labor.

One of Robert’s clients desired to open a French restaurant, with the usual hotel appurtenances.  He made application in the usual manner.  But the license was denied.

Robert was astonished for no reason was assigned and all requests for explanation were evaded.

A week or so later, Robert met the restaurateur.  “Well, I’ve done it,” said the latter, jovially.  “Open Monday, Come around and eat with me.”

“But—­how did you manage it?”

“Oh, I took a tip.  I made Ruef my attorney.  Big retaining fee,” he sighed.  “But—­well, it’s worth the price.”

CHAPTER LXXVII

ALETA’S PROBLEM

By the end of Schmitz’ second term the Democrats and Republicans were thoroughly alarmed.  They saw a workingmen’s control of city government loom large and imminent, with all its threat of overturned political tradition.

So the old line parties got together.  They made it a campaign of Morality against imputed Vice.  They selected as a fusion standard-bearer George S. Partridge, a young lawyer of unblemished reputation—­and of untried strength.

“If Ruef succeeds a third time,” Frank said to his father, “he’ll control the town.  He’ll elect a full Board of Supervisors ... that is freely prophesied if Union Labor wins.  You ought to see his list of candidates—­waffle bakers, laundry wagon drivers—­horny-fisted sons of toil and parasites of politics.  Heaven help us if they get in power!”