“What’s this administration got to do with Vanney’s mills?  I thought they were in Jersey,” another diner asked.

“So they are, the main ones.  But he’s backing some of the local clothing manufacturers, the sweat-shop lot.  They’ve been having strikes.  That interferes with profits.  Uncle wants the good old days of the night-stick and the hurry-up wagon back.  He’s even willing to spend a little money on the good cause.”

Io, seated on Banneker’s left, turned to him.  “Is that true, Ban?”

“I’ve heard rumors to that effect,” he replied evasively.

“Won’t it put The Patriot in a queer position, to be making common cause with an enemy of labor?”

“It isn’t a question of Horace Vanney, at all,” he declared.  “He’s just an incident.”

“When are you going to write your Laird editorial?”

“All written.  I’ve got a proof in my pocket.”

She made as if to hold out her hand; but withdrew it.  “After dinner,” she said.  “The little enclosed porch off the conservatory.”

Amused and confirmatory glances followed them as they withdrew together.  But there was no ill-natured commentary.  So habituated was their own special set to the status between them that it was accepted with tolerance, even with the good-humored approval with which human nature regards a logical inter-attraction.

“Are you sure that you want to plunge into politics, Io?” Banneker asked, looking down at her as she seated herself in the cushioned chaise longue.

Her mouth smiled assent, but her eyes were intent and serious.  He dropped the proof into her lap, bending over and kissing her lips as he did so.  For a moment her fingers interlaced over his neck.

“I’ll understand it,” she breathed, interpreting into his caress a quality of pleading.

Before she had read halfway down the column, she raised to him a startled face.  “Are you sure, Ban?” she interrogated.

“Read the rest,” he suggested.

She complied.  “What a terrible power little things have,” she sighed.  “That would make me despise Laird.”

“A million other people will feel the same way to-morrow.”

“To-morrow?  Is it to be published so soon?”

“In the morning’s issue.”

“Ban; is it true?  Did he say that?”

“I have it from a man I’ve known ever since I came to New York.  He’s reliable.”

“But it’s so unlike Bob Laird.”

“Why is it unlike him?” he challenged with a tinge of impatience.  “Hasn’t he been playing about lately with the Junior Masters?”

“Do you happen to know,” she replied quietly, “that Junior and Bob Laird were classmates and clubmates at college, and that they probably always have called each other by their first names?”

“No.  Have you ever heard them?” Angry regret beset him the instant the question had passed his lips.  If she replied in the affirmative—­