dy a look of gubernatorial dignity and power. He stands for
a moment in the lobby of the Pelican Hotel,--thronged now to
suffocation,--to shake hands genially with new friends, who are led
up by old friends with two fingers on the elbow. The old friends crack
jokes and whisper in the ear of the governor-to-be, who presently goes
upstairs, accompanied by the Honourable Hilary Vane, to the bridal
suite, which is reserved for him, and which has fire-proof carpet on the
floor. The Honourable Hilary has a room next door, connecting with the
new governor's by folding doors, but this fact is not generally known to
country members. Only old timers, like Bijah Bixby and Job Braden, know
that the Honourable Hilary's room corresponds to one which in the old
Pelican was called the Throne Room, Number Seven, where Jethro Bass sat
in the old days and watched unceasingly the groups in the street from
the window.

But Jethro Bass has been dead these twenty years, and his lieutenants
shorn of power. An empire has arisen out of the ashes of the ancient
kingdoms. Bijah and Job are old, all-powerful still in Clovelly and
Leith--influential still in their own estimations; still kicking up
their heels behind, still stuttering and whispering into ears, still
"going along by when they are talking sly." But there are no guerrillas
now, no condottieri who can be hired: the empire has a paid and standing
army, as an empire should. The North Country chiefs, so powerful in the
clan warfare of bygone days, are generals now,--chiefs of staff. The
captain-general, with a minute piece of Honey Dew under his tongue,
sits in Number Seven. A new Number Seven,--with electric lights and a
bathroom and a brass bed. Tempora mutantur. There is an empire and a
feudal system, did one but know it. The clans are part of the empire,
and each chief is responsible for his clan--did one but know it. One
doesn't know it.

The Honourable Brush Bascom, Duke of Putnam, member of the House, has
arrived unostentatiously--as is his custom--and is seated in his own
headquarters, number ten (with a bathroom). Number nine belongs from
year to year to Mr. Manning, division superintendent of that part of
the Northeastern which was the old Central,--a thin gentleman with
side-whiskers. He loves life in the capital so much that he takes
his vacations there in the winter,--during the sessions of the
Legislature,--presumably because it is gay. There are other rooms,
higher up, of i