She did not understand her husband’s absence; he rarely or never took her into his confidence in political matters.  She had not known until that morning that he was not to be present at the convention.  She did not relish the idea that he had been defeated in the primaries; in her mind defeat was inseparable from dishonor.  The “War Eagle of the Wabash” was in excellent voice and he spoke for thirty minutes; his speech would have aroused greater enthusiasm if it had not been heard in many previous state conventions and on the hustings through many campaigns.  Dan Voorhees had once expressed his admiration of that speech; and it was said that Tom Hendricks had revised the original manuscript the year he was chosen Vice-President.  It was a safe speech, containing nothing that any good American might not applaud; it named practically every Democratic President except the twenty-second and twenty-fourth, whom it seemed the better part of valor just then to ignore.  With slight emendations that same oration served admirably for high-school commencements, and it had a recognized cash value on the Chautauqua circuit.  The peroration, closing with “Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!” was well calculated to bring strong men to their feet.  The only complaint the War Eagle might have lodged against the Ship of State (in some imaginable admiralty court having jurisdiction of that barnacled old frigate) would have been for its oft-repeated rejection of his own piloting.

The permanent chairman now disclosed was a man of business, who thanked the convention briefly and went to work.  By the time the committee on resolutions had presented the platform (on which Bassett and Harwood had collaborated) the convention enjoyed its first sensation as Thatcher appeared, moving slowly down the crowded main aisle to join the delegation of his county.  His friends had planned a demonstration for his entrance, and in calling it an ovation the newspapers hardly magnified its apparent spontaneity and volume.  The man who had undertaken the herculean task of driving Morton Bassett out of politics was entitled to consideration, and his appearance undoubtedly interrupted the business of the convention for fully five minutes.  Thatcher bowed and waved his hand as he sat down.  The cordiality of his reception both pleased and embarrassed him.  He fanned himself with his hat and feigned indifference to the admiration of his countrymen.

“Papa always gets more applause than that,” Marian remarked to Sylvia.  “I was at the state convention two years ago and father came in late, just as Mr. Thatcher did.  They always come in late after all the stupid speeches have been made; they’re surer to stir up a big rumpus that way.”

Sylvia gave serious heed to these transactions of history.  Her knowledge of politics was largely derived from lectures she had heard at college and from a diligent reading of newspapers.  The report of the committee on resolutions—­a succinct document to each of whose paragraphs the delegates rose in stormy approval—­had just been read.