But he astonished San Francisco voters by becoming a candidate for mayor.

* * * * *

Aleta had returned from Camp Curry.  There was a certain quiet in her eyes, a greater self-control, a better facing of Life’s problems.  They spoke of Kant and his philosophy.  “The Nightmare is less turbulent,” she said.

One evening at her apartment Frank met a young woman named France, a fragile, fine-haired, dreamy sort of girl, and he was not surprised to learn that she wrote poetry.

“Norah’s been working as a telephone operator,” explained Aleta.  “She’s written a story about it—­the working girl’s wrongs....  Oh, not the ordinary wail-and-whine,” she added hastily.  “It’s real meat.  I’ve read it.  The Saturday Magazine’s considering it.”

Miss France smiled deprecatingly.  “I have high hopes,” she said.  “I need the money.”

“It will give you prestige, too,” Frank told her, but she shook her head.

“Norah hasn’t signed her name to it,” Aleta disapproved.  “Just because a friend, a well known writer in Carmel, has fixed it up for her a little.”

“It doesn’t seem like mine,” the girl remarked.  Aleta rose.  “This is election night,” she said; “let’s go down and watch the returns.”

They did this, standing on the fringe of a crowd that thronged about the newspaper offices, watching, eager, but patient, the figures which were flashed on a screen.

The crowd was less demonstrative than is usual on such occasions.  A feeling of anxiety prevailed, a consciousness of vital issues endangered and put to the test.  Toward midnight the crowd grew thicker.  But it was more joyous now.  Taylor and Langdon were leading.  It became evident that they must win.

Suddenly the restless stillness of the throng was broken by spontaneous cheering.  It was impressive, overwhelming, like a great burst of relieved emotion.

Norah France caught Frank’s arm as the celebrants eddied round them.  The press was disbanding with an almost violent haste.  “Where’s Aleta?” asked the girl.

Frank searched amid the human eddies, but in vain.  “She got separated from us somehow,” he said rather helplessly.  They searched farther, without result.  Aleta doubtless had gone home.

“I wonder if you’d take me somewhere ... for a cup of coffee,” said Miss France.  The hand upon his arm grew heavy.  “I’m a little faint.”

“Surely.”  He suggested a popular cafe, but she shook her head.  “Just some quiet little place ... a ‘chop house.’  That’s what the switch-girls call them.”

So they entered a pair of swinging doors inscribed “Ladies” on one side and “Gents” on the other.  Miss France laughingly insisted that they pass each on the proper side of this divided portal.  She was a creature of swift moods; one moment feverishly gay, the next brooding, with a penchant for satire.  He wondered how she endured the hard work of a telephone switch-operator.  But one felt that whatever she willed she would do.  Eagerly she sipped her steaming coffee from a heavy crockery cup, nibbling at a bit of French bread.  Then she said to him so suddenly that he almost sprang out of his chair.