A day or two later a scene he had witnessed in the kitchen, in which Caroline and Tempie hung anxiously over a simmering pan of lemon juice, sugar, rye whisky and peppermint which, when it arrived at the proper sirupy condition, was to be administered as a soothing potion to the hoarse throat of Peyton Kendrick, who perched croaking on a chair close by, drove him to seeking comfort from Phoebe much to her apparent amusement but secret perturbation, for Phoebe both comprehended and feared the situation.

And thus there is also much of the primitive left in the heart of the modern man on which the elemental forces work.

Then the day for the election came nearer and nearer by what seemed fleeting hours.  The whole city was thoroughly aroused and fighting hard under one banner or the other.  As the last week drew to a close and left only the few days of the following week for a round-up of the forces before the Wednesday election, the men all became absorbed to the point of oblivion to everything save the speculation as to how the race would go.  But it was not in the nature of David Kildare to be held against the grindstone of serious endeavor too long at a time, and in the midst of the turmoil he proceeded to plot for a brief and exciting relaxation for himself and his strenuous friends, and he chose Saturday for the accomplishment thereof.

The morning dawned in a fluff of gray fog that hung low down over the avenue, though the sun showed signs of soon piercing the gloom.  The clash and clatter of the city was fast approaching a noonday roar but still Phoebe slept in the room which adjoined that of Caroline Darrah Brown.

Caroline cautiously opened the door and stole in gently to the side of the bed, then paused and looked down with delight.  Phoebe, asleep, was a thing calculated to bring delight to any beholder.  The brilliant, casual, insouciant, worldly Phoebe had gone out on a dream-hunt and a delicious curled-up flower lay in her place, with turned lashes dipping against soft tinted cheeks.  Her head rested on one bare white arm and one hand curled under her daintily molded chin.  Caroline caught her breath—­this was a pathetic Phoebe when one thought of the most times Phoebe, cool, self-reliant—­perforce!

“The darling,” she whispered to herself as she slipped to her knees by the low bed, “I can’t bear to wake her, but I’m afraid not to; it’s an hour late already.  Dear!” She slipped her arm under the glossy head and pressed a little kiss on the dimple over the northeast corner of the warm lips.

Phoebe’s gray eyes smiled themselves open for a fraction of a second, then she nestled to Caroline’s shoulder and calmly drifted off again in pursuit of the dream.

“Dearie,” Caroline begged, “it’s after ten!”

Phoebe sighed, nestled closer and drifted again.  Caroline settled herself against the pillows and pressed her cheek against the thick black braid that curled across the sleeper’s bare shoulder.  She was incapable of another combat with the sleep-god and decided to wait.  Besides, the awake Phoebe was busy—­and elusive—­not given to bestowing or receiving aught save the most fleeting caresses.  So for a few moments Caroline Darrah’s arms held her hungrily.