sense,—without flummery or mud-slinging or rosy promises that can't be fulfilled."
The editor acquiesced, but privately reserved the prerogative of serving up Keble's phrases at a temperature and with garnishings adapted to the Witney palate. He had seen elections won by lungs and knuckles.
"Well," Keble laughed on returning to Miriam's side. "That's done it! Do you remember the play, 'What Every Woman Knows'? You'll have to be Maggie Wylie and edit my speeches."
Miriam's tyrant exulted, but her honesty compelled her to say, "I doubt whether your supporters will appreciate my genius; it runs to neatness of copy and pluperfective subjunctives. Maggie Wylie put damns into her husband's speeches, and Louise is the only person who can find the Witney and Valley equivalents. Is there any occasion she can't rise to, for that matter?" This last remark was a trifle bitter.
In Keble's mind was an image of Louise sitting beside her patient, quoting Swinburne. "We'll submit our efforts to her," he agreed. "We'll pack Louise into an imaginary hall on the boat-slip, and I'll stand up on an imaginary platform and rant. Louise will be the proletariat and boo, clap, or heckle. Then we shall know where we stand."
"We are babes in the wood, you and I," Miriam observed, with a familiar sense of incompetence.
For days they collected statistics, held consulta-
