She liked the high, easy swing of the thing over its big wheels, the quick clatter-patter of the horse, the passage of the teeming streets. Her aunt glanced up startled, and then sat very still, with hands that had ceased to work. For a long time neither spoke again. “My dear sweet Lucia. He’ll never ask because I’m not in with those people, you know? Well, I guess John Diedermayer might have some connection, but, I certainly don’t. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. Her new husband was pleased to watch the astonished look on her face as tray after tray appeared on the grand table, each better than the next. “The Vote is the symbol of everything,” said Miss Brett. “What can you do?” she asked. She saw his face change, how he regretted.
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