Sammy had about given up. It looked as though Matthew was going to be triumphantly nominated. In fact, he had just learned that Matthew had made one unexpected move, and whether it was stupid or astute, Sammy was undecided. Corruthers had told him that during that very afternoon the left-wing Labor people had got at Matthew and told him that they had not been included in the negotiations after that first visit of Sara, and that none of their representatives were invited to the conference tonight. Matthew had been closeted with them a couple of hours, but just what was said or done Sammy was unable to learn. Apparently his henchman, the young colored radical, was not present, and he could not find the Indian. His hope then that the radicals would burst in on this conference and make trouble at the last moment seemed groundless. Perhaps Matthew by some hocus-pocus had secured their silent assent. The Labor delegation would probably not arrive at all.
Meantime, this conference must get on. If success was sure, he must be in the band wagon. He gradually gathered his colored politicians out into the dining-room, where there was good liquor. He got the white women and the colored women on the porch in earnest conversation on settlement work for the South Side. The younger women and men, including the Republican boss and his friends, he brought together in the main reception room and started some sprightly conversation. All this was done while Sara had been arranging carefully and not too obviously the personal conferences with Matthew. Well, it was all over.
Then he noticed Corruthers beckoning to him furtively from the half-raised portières that led to the hall. He looked about. Various members of the colored group were talking with the whites, and Matthew had emerged from the little library and seemed to be having a pleasant chat with the minister. Sammy slipped out.
“Say,” said Corruthers, “that Labor delegation is here and they want to come in.”
Sammy pricked up his ears.
Aha! It looked as though something might happen after all. He walked over to Sara and imparted his news.
“Well, they are not coming in here,” said Sara.
“But,” expostulated Sammy, “they have evidently been invited.”
“Not by me,” snapped Sara.
“But I suspect by Matthew. He was with them this afternoon.”
Sara started and tapped her foot impatiently. But Sammy went on:
“Don’t you think it would be good politics to let them have their say? We don’t need to yield to them in any way.”
Sara was unwilling, but she saw the point. It was a shame to have this love feast broken into. Then a plan occurred to her. They need not come in here; they could meet Matthew in the little library. The door to the reception room could be closed, and they could enter from the hall. Meantime, Sammy saw Corruthers again beckoning excitedly from the door. He walked over quickly, and Corruthers whispered to him.
“My God!” said Sammy. “Hush, Corruthers, and don’t say another word. Here, come and have a drink!”
Then he hurried back to Sara. Sara interrupted him before he could speak.
“Take them into the library. I will have Matthew receive them.” She sauntered over to Matthew. “Matthew, dear, some of the Bolsheviks are here and want to talk to you. I have had them taken from the hall directly to the library. You can close the door. They will probably feel more at ease then.”
Matthew rose and said a little impatiently: “Why not have them in here?”
“They preferred the smaller room,” said Sara. “They are not exactly—dressed for an evening function.”
And then, turning, she ordered the portières which concealed the dining-room to be thrown open, and as Matthew stepped into the small library, the blaze of Sara’s supper fell upon the company in the reception room.
The table was a goodly sight. The waiters were deft and silent. The music rose sweetly. The company was hungry, for it was nearly nine. Even Mrs. Beech, who had meant to dine in Hubbard Woods, changed her mind. Little tables with lace, linen, China, and silver were set about, and soon a regular dinner of excellent quality was being served. Tongues loosened, laughter rose, and a feeling of good fellowship began to radiate. Mr. Cadwalader and Mrs. Beech agreed sotto voce that really this was quite average in breeding and as a spectacle; they glowed at the rainbow of skins—it was positively exciting.
Sammy was almost hilarious. He could not restrain a wink at Corruthers, and both of them simultaneously bolted for the hall in order to laugh freely and get some more of that other punch. Meantime, Sara’s unease increased. Her place and Matthew’s had been arranged at the edge of the dining-room at a table with Mrs. Beech and Mr. Graham. The banker, the state official, and the two pretty young politicians’ wives were at a table next, and the other tables were arranged as far as possible with at least one bit of color.
But where was Matthew? thought Sara impatiently. It was time for the toast and the great announcement—the culmination of the feast and conference. Mrs. Beech asked for Mr. Towns.
“He’s having a last word with the Communists,” laughed Sara.
“Oh, are they here?” asked Mr. Cadwalader uneasily—“at the last moment?”
“They wouldn’t come in—they are asking about some minor matters of adjustment, I presume.”
But Sara knew she must interfere. She distrusted Matthew’s mushy indecision. To reopen the argument now might spoil all. She could stand it no longer. She arose easily, a delicate coffee cup in hand, and said a laughing word. She moved to the library door. Sammy watched her. The others sensed in different ways some slight uneasiness in the air.
“Well, Mr. Towns,” said Sara, pushing the door wide, “we—”
The light of the greater room poured into the lesser—searching out its shadows. The ugly Chinese god grinned in the corner, and a blue rug glowed on the floor. In the
