“Io, the soul of man is simple and clear compared with the soul of a newspaper.”

“If it has a soul.”

“Of course it has.  It’s got to have.  Otherwise what is it but a machine?”

“Which is The Patriot’s; yours or Mr. Marrineal’s?  I can’t,” said Io quaintly, “quite see them coalescing.”

“I wonder if Marrineal has a soul,” mused Banneker.

“If he hasn’t one of his own, let him keep his hands off yours!” said Io in a flash of feminine jealousy.  “He’s done enough already with his wretched mills.  What shall you do about the attack in The Summons?”

“Ignore it.  It would be difficult to answer.  Besides, people easily forget.”

“A dangerous creed, Ban.  And a cynical one.  I don’t want you to be cynical.”

“I never shall be again, unless—­”

“Unless?” she prompted.

“It rests with you, Io,” he said quietly.

At once she took flight.  “Am I to be keeper of your spirit?” she protested.  “It’s bad enough to be your professional adviser.  Why don’t you invite a crowd of us down to get the election returns?” she suggested.

“Make up your party,” assented Banneker.  “Keep it small; say a dozen, and we can use my office.”

On the fateful evening there duly appeared Io with a group of a dozen friends.  From the first, it was a time of triumph.  Laird took the lead and kept it.  By midnight, the result was a certainty.  In a balcony speech from his headquarters the victor had given generous recognition for his success to The Patriot, mentioning Banneker by name.  When the report reached them Esther Forbes solemnly crowned the host with a wreath composed of the “flimsy” on which the rescript of the speech had come in.

“Skoal to Ban!” she cried.  “Maker of kings and mayors and things.  Skoal!  As you’re a viking or something of the sort, the Norse salutation is appropriate.”

“It ought to be Danish to be accurate,” he smiled.

“Well, that’s a hardy, seafaring race,” she chattered.  “And that reminds me.  Come on out to the South Seas with us.”

“Charmed,” he returned.  “When do we start?  To-morrow?”

“Oh, I’m not joking.  You’ve certainly earned a vacation.  And of course you needn’t enlist for the whole six months if that is too long.  Dad has let me have the yacht.  There’ll only be a dozen.  Io’s going along.”

Banneker shot one startled, incredulous look at Io Eyre, and instantly commanded himself, to the point of controlling his voice to gayety as he replied: 

“And who would tell the new mayor how he should run the city, if I deserted him?  No, Esther, I’m afraid I’m chained to this desk.  Ask me sometime when you’re cruising as far as Coney Island.”

Io sat silent, and with a set smile, listening to Herbert Cressey’s account of an election row in the district where he was volunteer watcher.  When the party broke up, she went home with Densmore without giving Banneker the chance of a word with her.  It seemed to him that there was a mute plea for pardon in her face as she bade him good-night.