Oh, I dare say it's different when one happens
to be a man," wound up Miss Marty, "but what _I_ want to know is why
couldn't we be let alone and go on comfortably?"
The Major rose and flicked a crumb or two from the knees of his
pantaloons. For the moment he seemed about to answer her, but
thought better of it and left the room without speech, taking his
napkin with him.
To tell the truth, he had been near to giving way. In his heart he
echoed Miss Marty's protest; and it touched him with an accent of
reproach--faint indeed; an accent and no more--which yet he had
detected and understood. Was he not in some sort responsible?
Would the Millennium be imminent to-day--or, if imminent, would it be
wearing so momentous an aspect?--if at the last Mayor-choosing he had
modestly declined to be re-elected (for the fifth successive year),
and had stood aside in favour of some worthy but less eminent
citizen? Hansombody, for instance? Hansombody admired him, idolised
him, with a devotion almost canine. Yet Hansombody might be expected
to cherish hopes of the mayoral succession sooner or later, for one
brief year at any rate; and for a few moments after acceding for the
sixth time to the unanimous request of the burgesses, the Major had
almost fancied that Hansombody's feelings were hurt. Hansombody
would have made a competent mayor; provoking comparison, of course,
but certainly not provoking the jealousy of the gods.
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