“And you thought there might be some of the hero in me, too?” Moyese laughed, the noiseless genial laugh creasing his chin and his white vest.

“While you laugh, you are letting your rose wither.”

He handed the rose to her.  “Yes, I know that fellow.  I was in the Kootenay when he lost his arm, torn out all bloody right from the shoulder socket; had to pry the cogs up to get him out.  They collected a purse of a thousand for him; but he wouldn’t take a cent:  handed it over to the hospital.  Something in that fellow bigger than self kind of popped out and surprised himself.”

She noticed him looking at the wall clock as he talked, but not being a business woman did not know what that meant.

“There’s something bigger than self with us all, Senator; and we have to work for it.”

“My dear child, do you think you need to tell an old stager that?” He was kicking the creases out of his trousers.  This time, she could not mistake the signal, and felt her womanish idealism of mining for the hidden vein of heroism both childish and cheapening.  She rose and placed the flower back on the desk.

“There’s something bigger than you or me, my dear,” he went on, “something for which every man worth his salt must work and fight, and which a woman does not understand.”

“And that is?”

“His party,” said Moyese.

“But Senator, there is something bigger than party, and if a man works against That, he’ll injure his party.”

“And that is?”

“His Nation,” said the girl.

Moyese gave her a quick sharp look that was not unkindly.  In fact, Eleanor could read that it was lonely, irritated, isolated.

“My dear,” he said, coming round where she stood, “we differ on fundamentals.  The whole nation to-day is divided on fundamentals.  I’m no mealy mouth to curse plutocracy in order to please the mob.  Plutocracy fills the workman’s dinner pail and keeps the mills going and opens the mines and builds the railroads.  Mobocracy, your grubby corn cob and trashy roses, that, what does it do?  Mouthe and mouthe and try to pull down what is above it!  It will have to be fought out!  No?  It will not be another French Revolution! Our bullets are ballots, nowadays; and the American people get exactly the form of Government which they want.  If they want another form, it remains with them to fight for it.  The umpire of all is fact—­Miss Eleanor; and the facts of each side will have to be fought out; the better man will win; be sure of that! The facts that are facts not fictions will win, with ballots for bullets.  For my part, I’ll not dodge the issue; and I hope you’ll not think me any the less of the hero for that?”

He had extended his hand as he talked, and to her surprise, she found herself taking it when with a wave of revulsion, the memory of the Ridge and the Rim Rocks came back.