the monopoly had
been double-edged; it had been a good risk--and without it, he
wouldn't have had the slightest chance against the requirements--but
it had been _too_ perfect, too prominent. In the beginning, everybody
had hailed him as a Napoleon because he had vanquished his little
world of competitors; but now that his laurel was old enough to wilt,
he was receiving the natural back-lash of criticism. Naturally, his
personal friends were still delighted, the older men at the club were
still congratulating him for foresight and ingenuity, and Mr.
Archer was still complimentary and confident: but the great mass
of theatre-goers, and the mass of self-appointed arbiters of
business ethics, were pointing to him as a follower of the gods of
grasp and gripe. More disquieting than that, however, were the
indications of a new crusade, led by Mr. Mix, and directed against
the Council. The Mix amendment, which was so sweeping that it
prohibited even Sunday shows for charity, would automatically
checkmate Henry; and the worst of it was that money was being
spent with some effectiveness. Of course, the amendment wouldn't ever
be adopted _in toto_--it was too sweeping, too drastic--but even a
compromise on the subject of Sunday entertainments would be fatal.

Despite the strain, he was outwardly as blithe and optimistic as
usual. When Anna pleaded with him to take a vacation, he either
laughed her off in his most jovial manner, or riposted that she needed
a vacation far more than he did, which may have been true; when Judge
Barklay attempted to reason with him, he responded with respectful
humour. He had seen victory slip within his grasp, and slip out of
it, so often that he was on the verge of complete demoralization, but
he thought that he alone was aware of it, and because of his pride,
Anna didn't disillusion him.

Nor did Bob Standish disillusion him. Standish tried to bolster him up
with undergraduate slang, and to convey to Henry the fact that all the
hill-folk were solidly behind him, but he knew better than to come out
flat with commiseration. Then, too, Standish was conscious of a vague
cloud which had come up to blur their relationship. He didn't suspect
for an instant the true cause of it, which was his remark, some months
ago, that he wouldn't employ in his office a friend such as Henry; but
he felt it, and was keenly concerned about it. Nevertheless, his own
unselfish interest never faltered, and he waited patient