His mother would have known how to receive her.  He felt, that afternoon, a real homesickness for his mother.  He saw her, ample and comfortable and sane, so busy with the comforts of the body that she seemed to ignore the soul, and yet bringing healing with her every matter-of-fact movement.

If only Lily could have gone back to her, instead of to that great house, full of curious eyes and whispering voices.

He saw Mr. Hendricks that evening on his way home to supper.  Mr. Hendricks had lost flesh and some of his buoyancy, but he was persistently optimistic.

“Up to last night I’d have said we were done, son,” he observed.  “But this bomb business has settled them.  The labor vote’ll split on it, sure as whooping cough.”

“They’ve bought a half-page in all the morning papers, disclaiming all responsibility and calling on all citizens to help them in protecting private property.”

“Have they, now,” said Hendricks, with grudging admiration.  “Can you beat that?  Where do they get the money, anyhow?  If I lost my watch these days I’d have to do some high-finance before I’d be able to advertise for it.”

“All right, see Cardew,” were his parting words.  “But he doesn’t want this election any more than I want my right leg.  He’ll stick.  You can talk, Cameron, I’ll say it.  But you can’t pry him off with kind words, any more than you can a porous plaster.”

Behind Mr. Hendricks’ colloquialisms there was something sturdy and fine.  His very vernacular made him popular; his honesty was beyond suspicion.  If he belonged to the old school in politics, he had most of its virtues and few of its vices.  He would take care of his friends, undoubtedly, but he was careful in his choice of friends.  He would make the city a good place to live in.  Like Willy Cameron, he saw it, not a center of trade so much as a vast settlement of homes.  Business supported the city in his mind, not the city business.

Nevertheless the situation was serious, and it was with a sense of a desperate remedy for a desperate disease that Willy Cameron, after a careful toilet, rang the bell of the Cardew house that night.  He had no hope of seeing Lily, but the mere thought that they were under one roof gave him a sense of nearness and of comfort in her safety.

Dinner was recently over, and he found both the Cardews, father and son, in the library smoking.  He had arrived at a bad moment, for the bomb outrage, coming on top of Lily’s refusal to come home under the given conditions, had roused Anthony to a cold rage, and left Howard with a feeling of helplessness.

Anthony Cardew nodded to him grimly, but Howard shook hands and offered him a chair.

“I heard you speak some time ago, Mr. Cameron,” he said.  “You made me wish I could have had your support.”

“I came to talk about that.  I am sorry to have to come in the evening, but I am not free at any other time.”