It was appropriate, perhaps, that many of us dined on the evening of election day at the Boyne Club.  There was early evidence of a Republican land-slide.  And when, at ten o’clock, it was announced that Mr. Trulease was re-elected by a majority which exceeded Mr. Grunewald’s most hopeful estimate, that the legislature was “safe,” that Theodore Watling would be the next United States Senator, a scene of jubilation ensued within those hallowed walls which was unprecedented.  Chairs were pushed back, rugs taken up, Gene Hollister played the piano and a Virginia reel started; in a burst of enthusiasm Leonard Dickinson ordered champagne for every member present.  The country was returning to its senses.  Theodore Watling had preferred, on this eventful night, to remain quietly at home.  But presently carriages were ordered, and a “delegation” of enthusiastic friends departed to congratulate him; Dickinson, of course, Grierson, Fowndes, Ogilvy, and Grunewald.  We found Judah B. Tallant there,—­in spite of the fact that it was a busy night for the Era; and Adolf Scherer himself, in expansive mood, was filling the largest of the library chairs.  Mr. Watling was the least excited of them all; remarkably calm, I thought, for a man on the verge of realizing his life’s high ambition.  He had some old brandy, and a box of cigars he had been saving for an occasion.  He managed to convey to everyone his appreciation of the value of their cooperation....

It was midnight before Mr. Scherer arose to take his departure.  He seized Mr. Watling’s hand, warmly, in both of his own.

“I have never,” he said, with a relapse into the German f’s, “I have never had a happier moment in my life, my friend, than when I congratulate you on your success.”  His voice shook with emotion.  “Alas, we shall not see so much of you now.”

“He’ll be on guard, Scherer,” said Leonard Dickinson, putting his arm around my chief.

“Good night, Senator,” said Tallant, and all echoed the word, which struck me as peculiarly appropriate.  Much as I had admired Mr. Watling before, it seemed indeed as if he had undergone some subtle change in the last few hours, gained in dignity and greatness by the action of the people that day.  When it came my turn to bid him good night, he retained my hand in his.

“Don’t go yet, Hugh,” he said.

“But you must be tired,” I objected.

“This sort of thing doesn’t make a man tired,” he laughed, leading me back to the library, where he began to poke the fire into a blaze.  “Sit down awhile.  You must be tired, I think,—­you’ve worked hard in this campaign, a good deal harder than I have.  I haven’t said much about it, but I appreciate it, my boy.”  Mr. Watling had the gift of expressing his feelings naturally, without sentimentality.  I would have given much for that gift.

“Oh, I liked it,” I replied awkwardly.

I read a gentle amusement in his eyes, and also the expression of something else, difficult to define.  He had seated himself, and was absently thrusting at the logs with the poker.