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Updated: April 30, 2025
At half past seven in the morning, Mirabelle was already at the breakfast table, and semi-audibly rating Mr. Mix for his slothfulness, when he came in with an odd knitting of his forehead and an unsteady compression of his mouth. To add to the effect, he placed his feet with studied clumsiness, and as he gave the Herald into Mirabelle's hands, he uttered a sound which annoyed her.
Miss Mirabelle Starkweather lifted up her cup of tea, and with the little finger of her right hand stiffly extended to Mr. Mix's good health. Mr. Mix, sitting upright in a gilded chair which was three sizes too small for him, bowed with a courtliness which belonged to the same historical period as the chair, and also drank. Over the rim of his cup, his eyes met Mirabelle's.
But he couldn't help reflecting that now, more than ever, if any echo of his New York escapades, or any rumour of his guarded habits got to Mirabelle's ears or, for that matter, to anybody's ears at all his dreams would float away in vapour. Perhaps it would be wise to explain to Mirabelle that he had once been a sinner. She would probably forgive him, and appreciate him all the more.
He wouldn't have dared, in view of Mirabelle's opinion, to ask for an injunction on behalf of the League itself, but it had occurred to him that he might arrange the matter privately. But Henry had outstripped him; and furthermore, there was no question of judicial favour. The Judge who had refused the application was no friend of Henry, or of Judge Barklay.
For half an hour she had sat bolt upright on the edge of her seat, an umbrella in one hand and an antique satchel in the other, and her air was a public proclamation that no railroad, soulless corporation though it might be, was going to carry her one inch beyond her destination. By a superhuman effort, Mr. Mix removed his eyes from Mirabelle's convention badge.
Mirabelle's money, not to be replaced. And then she nearly collapsed! the unspeakable humiliation of retracting her pledge to the national convention. Her pledge through Mr. Mix of twenty-five thousand dollars. How could she ever offer an excuse that would hold water? And how could she tell the truth? And to think of Mr.
Mix's place in the community when it was shown as inevitably it would be shown that he had acted merely as a toy balloon, inflated by Mirabelle's vain expectations. "Humph!" she said at length, and her voice was a hoarse, thin whisper. "Well you just wait 'till I get hold of him!" The door had closed behind her: the door had been closed behind Mr.
"No, but I can hear pretty well," said Mirabelle. "I'm not deaf. And seems to me " She sniffled. "Seems to me you're making an awful funny start of things, Theodore." "My dear girl " "What?" "I just said 'my dear girl. I " "Say it again, Theodore!" To himself, Mr. Mix said something else, but for Mirabelle's benefit, he began a third time. "My dear girl, it's simply to evade the law, and "
And Mirabelle's the same way; she's still tryin' to live under the 1874 rules." He came back to his desk, and sat down thoughtfully. "Well, she's been talkin' to me ever since you went off on this party and as far's most of it's concerned, I'm not on her side, and I'm not on your side; I'm sort of betwixt and between."
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