Dave Beasley's going to be the next governor
of this state, you know." He laughed, offered me a cigar, and we sat
down together on the front steps.
"From all I hear," I rejoined, "YOU ought to know who'll get it." (It
was said in town that Dowden would "come pretty near having the
nomination in his pocket.")
"I expect you thought I shifted the subject pretty briskly the other
day?" He glanced at me quizzically from under the brim of his black felt
hat. "I meant to tell you about that, but the opportunity didn't occur.
You see--"
"I understand," I interrupted. "I've heard the story. You thought it
might be embarrassing to Miss Apperthwaite."
"I expect I was pretty clumsy about it," said Dowden, cheerfully. "Well,
well--" he flicked his cigar with a smothered ejaculation that was half
a sigh and half a laugh; "it's a mighty strange case. Here they keep on
living next door to each other, year after year, each going on alone
when they might just as well--" He left the sentence unfinished, save
for a vocal click of compassion. "They bow when they happen to meet, but
they haven't exchanged a word since the night she sent him away, long
ago." He shook his head, then his countenance cleared and he chuckled.
"Well, sir, Dave's got something at home to keep him busy enough, these
days, I expect!"
"Do you mind telling me?" I inquired. "Is its name 'Simpledoria'?"
Mr. Dowden threw back his head and laughed loudly.
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