Meanwhile Craig was also cooling down.  He had meant every word he said—­while he was saying it.  Only one self-convinced could have been so effective.  But, sobering off from his rhetorical debauch in the quiet streets of that majestic quarter, he began to feel that he had gone farther, much farther, than he intended.

“I don’t see how, in self-respect, I could have said less,” thought he.  “And surely the old woman isn’t so lost to decency that she can’t appreciate and admire self-respect.”

Still he might have spoken less harshly; might have been a little considerate of the fact that he was not making a stump speech, but was in the drawing-room of a high-born, high-bred lady.  “And gad, she is a patrician!”

His eyes were surveying the splendid mansions round about—­the beautiful window-gardens—­the curtains at the windows, which he had learned were real lace, whatever that might be, and most expensive.  Very fine, that way of living!  Very comfortable, to have servants at beck and call, and most satisfactory to the craving for power—­trifles, it is true, but still the substantial and tangible evidence of power.  “And it impresses the people, too.  We’re all snobs at bottom.  We’re not yet developed enough to appreciate such a lofty abstraction as democracy.”

True, Margaret was not rich; but the old grandmother was.  Doubtless, if he managed her right, she would see to it that he and Margaret had some such luxury as these grandly-housed people—­ “but not too much, for that would interfere with my political program.”  He did not protest this positively; the program seemed, for the moment, rather vague and not very attractive.  The main point seemed to be money and the right sort of position among the right sort of people.  He shook himself, scowled, muttered:  “I am a damn fool!  What do I amount to except as I rise in politics and stay risen?  I must be mighty careful or I’ll lose my point of view and become a wretched hanger-on at the skirts of these fakers.  For they are fakers—­frauds of the first water!  Take their accidental money away from them and they’d sink to be day laborers, most of them—­and not of much account there.”

He was sorely perplexed; he did not know what to do—­what he ought to do—­even what he wanted to do.  One thing seemed clear—­that he had gone further than was necessary in antagonizing the old woman.  Whether he wanted to marry the girl or not, he certainly did not wish, at this stage of the game, to make it impossible.  The wise plan was to leave the situation open in every direction, so that he could freely advance or freely retreat as unfolding events might dictate.  So he turned in the direction of the Severence house, walked at his usual tearing pace, arrived there somewhat wilted of collar and exceedingly dusty of shoe and trouser-leg.