“Feathers and cackle!” he muttered.  “This State House turned into a poultry yard!  And half of ’em braced back trying to crow!  When a hen crows and a woman votes—­well, it’s all the same thing!”

He relighted the cigar that he had brought through the press hidden in his big palm.  He eyed his grandson keenly and with some disfavor as he puffed the cigar alight.

“Look here, bub,” he burst out, “there are enough women around here to-day to remind me that I want to have a word with you on the woman question.  You intend to marry Madeleine Presson, don’t you?”

“Intend to marry her!” blazed his grandson.  “You talk as though it was the fashion to grab a girl and carry her off as they did in the Stone Age.”

“You know what I mean very well, sir.  I take it you are still decent, and if you’re decent you’ll marry the girl you’ve beaued around for six months—­providing she’ll have you.  That was the style in my day—­and decency doesn’t change much—­at least, it ought not to.”

Had it been the day before, Harlan Thornton would have declared to his grandfather what his intentions were toward Madeleine Presson.  The thoughts of the past night’s vigil came upon him now—­he hesitated.  He was angry with himself—­angry with this blunt and persistent old man.  He did not know whether resentment held him back from acknowledging that he had been a suitor for the hand of Luke Presson’s daughter or whether it was the strange, new feeling toward Clare Kavanagh since he had learned that her good name was in such piteous need of his protection and defence.

“Have you asked her to marry you?” demanded the Duke.

“Yes, I have—­that is—­” he paused.  His air irritated still more the testy humor of the old man, plainly provoked by earlier matters.

“’That is’!” he sneered. “‘I have.’  ‘Perhaps I have!’ ’Maybe I have—­let’s see what my notes say!’ What in the devil is the matter with the young men nowadays, anyway?  Blood in your veins about as thick as Porty Reek molasses!  You say you have asked her to marry you?  Well, if you’ve asked her and mean it, have you got anything to do with that Kavanagh girl being around this State House to-day?”

Harlan sprang to his feet.  He threw the document upon the table.  His heart leaped within him.  Even while his emotions bewildered him he found himself asking his conscience why he had not searched for her in spite of Dennis Kavanagh and her own plain desire to avoid him.  The bare knowledge that she was near sent the blood into his face.  Her coming to him seemed reproach for his acceptance of her flight.

“Do you mean that?”

“You are certainly giving me a fine imitation of a man who is surprised,” stated his grandfather.  “Maybe you are!  I hope so.  But she’s here.  She’s with a bunch of girls from some school or other, paraded around by a hatchet-faced woman—­another crowing hen that’s trying to teach parliamentary law, I suppose.  Harlan, I hope you’ve been square with me about that girl!  Now, if you’re honest, and don’t know she’s here, keep out of sight.  I’ve given you the tip.  She’ll be speaking to you—­and it will mix matters for you.  She’d like nothing better than to do it!”