A revolution
would be interesting and exciting, and there was strong in him the
desire to pull down. But revolution was troublesome. It was violent
and bloody. Even if it succeeded it would be years before the
country would be stabilized. This other, now--
He sat low in his chair, his long legs stretched out in his favorite
position, and dreamed. He would not play the fool like Doyle. He
would conciliate the family. In the end he would be put up at the
clubs; he might even play polo. His thoughts wandered to Pink
Denslow at the polo grounds, and he grinned.
"Young fool!" he reflected. "If I can't beat his time--" He
ordered dinner to be sent up, and mixed himself a cocktail, using
the utmost care in its preparation. Drinking it, he eyed himself
complacently in the small mirror over the mantel. Yes, life was
not bad. It was damned interesting. It was a game. No, it was
a race where a man could so hedge his bets that he stood to gain,
whoever won.
When there was a knock at the door he did not turn. "Come in,"
he said.
But it was not the waiter. It was Edith Boyd. He saw her through
the mirror, and so addressed her.
"Hello, sweetie," he said.
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