His campaign for the daughter of Thurston Gore had been comparable to one of the great sieges of history, for Mr. Plimpton was a laughing-stock when he sat down before that fortress.  At the end of ten years, Charlotte had capitulated, with a sigh of relief, realizing at last her destiny.  She had become slightly stout, revealing, as time went on, no wrinkles—­a proof that the union was founded on something more enduring than poetry:  Statesmanship—­that was the secret!  Step by step, slowly but surely, the memoranda in that matrimonial portfolio were growing into accomplished facts; all events, such as displacements of power, were foreseen; and the Plimptons, like Bismarck, had only to indicate, in case of sudden news, the pigeonhole where the plan of any particular campaign was filed.

Mrs. Larrabbee’s temptation to be witty at the expense of those for whom she had no liking had led Hodder to discount the sketch.  He had not disliked Mr. Plimpton, who had done him many little kindnesses.  He was good-natured, never ruffled, widely tolerant, hail-fellow-well-met with everybody, and he had enlivened many a vestry meeting with his stories.  It were hypercritical to accuse him of a lack of originality.  And if by taking thought, he had arrived, from nowhere, at his present position of ease and eminence, success had not turned to ashes in his mouth.  He fairly exhaled well-being, happiness, and good cheer.  Life had gone well with him, he wished the same to others.

But to-night, from his corner, Hodder seemed to see Mr. Plimpton with new eyes.  Not that he stood revealed a villain, which he was far from being; it was the air of sophistication, of good-natured if cynical acceptance of things as they were—­and plenty good enough, too!—­that jarred upon the rector in his new mood, and it was made manifest to him as never before why his appeals from the pulpit had lacked efficacy.  Mr. Plimpton didn’t want the world changed!  And in this desire he represented the men in that room, and the majority of the congregation of St. John’s.  The rector had felt something of this before, and it seemed to him astonishing that the revelation had not come to him sooner.  Did any one of them, in his heart, care anything for the ideals and aspirations of the Church?

As he gazed at them through the gathering smoke they had become strangers, receded all at once to a great distance. . . .  Across the room he caught the name, Bedloe Hubbell, pronounced with peculiar bitterness by Mr. Ferguson.  At his side Everett Constable was alert, listening.

“Ten years ago,” said a stout Mr. Varnum, the President of the Third National Bank, “if you’d told me that that man was to become a demagogue and a reformer, I wouldn’t have believed you.  Why, his company used to take rebates from the L. & G., and the Southern—­I know it.”  He emphasized the statement with a blow on the table that made the liqueur glasses dance.  “And now, with his Municipal League, he’s going to clean up the city, is he?  Put in a reform mayor.  Show up what he calls the Consolidated Tractions Company scandal.  Pooh!”