"No, it doesn't," he said, with something of his former enthusiasm gone.
"Or rather I haven't told you all of our work. You see Weis has gone
into politics rather more or less in his own city, and we're drifting
that way, too. They want me to run for alderman. I live downtown now,
you see. It's a bad ward. The decent people have never had a chance in
it. Of course it sounds silly--but really--I think seriously of it."

"I don't think it sounds silly at all," she cried. "I think it's
splendid. You can count on _The Dispatch_."

"But _The Dispatch_ isn't partisan," he said with a smile. "It never
takes sides."

"Well, it will this time," she declared truculently.

He laughed. "You're still a woman, Judith." Then his expression changed,
and his voice was tender. "I guess that's all you ever will be--to me."

The wind had shifted, making their refuge no longer comfortable, and
Judith suddenly became conscious of the hour.

"Goodness--I've only ten minutes to get to Mrs. Dodson's. Coming that
way?"

He nodded, and fell in beside her. They walked all the way in silence.
When they reached the magnificent building in which Mrs. Dodson slept,
but which seldom saw her when awake, Judith held out her hand.

"You haven't been near me for ages. Won't you come--occasionally--as you
used to?"

"Do you really want me to?" His eyes seemed extraordinarily bright as he
put the question.

"Of course."

"Then I will." He kept his gaze on her for a moment. With a wave of his
hand he turned sharply on his heel, and was on his way as if time were
precious.

Never, she thought, as she went into the house, had Imrie looked quite
so handsome, quite so virile. And never, certainly had she extended an
invitation to him which was more sincere, nor with the prospect of its
acceptance more wholly appealing. Yet she could not rid herself of an
inexplicable sadness.

It was some time, as she tried to listen attentively to Mrs. Dodson's
level voice, before the picture of a pair of glistening blue eyes and a
head of close-cropped, curly, blonde hair, and ruddy cheeks, and a set
of firm white teeth, parted in a smile, half wistful, half enthusiastic,
ceased dancing before her.

She was, she concluded, only a woman.

CHAPTER XIII

THE PILOT GOES OVERBOARD

Good and Roger Wynrod sat in the latter's office one afternoon, about a
week later, discussing, as was their regular habit, the day's paper.
This conference had always been