“He’s the biggest man in New York,” said Andy, almost reverently.  “He can about do anything he wants to with Tammany or any other old thing in the political line.  He’s a mile high and as broad as East River.  You say anything against Big Mike, and you’ll have a million men on your collarbone in about two seconds.  Why, he made a visit over to the old country awhile back, and the kings took to their holes like rabbits.

“Well, Big Mike’s a friend of mine.  I ain’t more than deuce-high in the district as far as influence goes, but Mike’s as good a friend to a little man, or a poor man as he is to a big one.  I met him to-day on the Bowery, and what do you think he does?  Comes up and shakes hands.  ‘Andy,’ says he, ’I’ve been keeping cases on you.  You’ve been putting in some good licks over on your side of the street, and I’m proud of you.  What’ll you take to drink?” He takes a cigar, and I take a highball.  I told him I was going to get married in two weeks.  ‘Andy,’ says he, ’send me an invitation, so I’ll keep in mind of it, and I’ll come to the wedding.’  That’s what Big Mike says to me; and he always does what he says.

“You don’t understand it, Maggie, but I’d have one of my hands cut off to have Big Mike Sullivan at our wedding.  It would be the proudest day of my life.  When he goes to a man’s wedding, there’s a guy being married that’s made for life.  Now, that’s why I’m maybe looking sore to-night.”

“Why don’t you invite him, then, if he’s so much to the mustard?” said Maggie, lightly.

“There’s a reason why I can’t,” said Andy, sadly.  “There’s a reason why he mustn’t be there.  Don’t ask me what it is, for I can’t tell you.”

“Oh, I don’t care,” said Maggie.  “It’s something about politics, of course.  But it’s no reason why you can’t smile at me.”

“Maggie,” said Andy, presently, “do you think as much of me as you did of your—­as you did of the Count Mazzini?”

He waited a long time, but Maggie did not reply.  And then, suddenly she leaned against his shoulder and began to cry—­to cry and shake with sobs, holding his arm tightly, and wetting the crepe de Chine with tears.

“There, there, there!” soothed Andy, putting aside his own trouble.  “And what is it, now?”

“Andy,” sobbed Maggie.  “I’ve lied to you, and you’ll never marry me, or love me any more.  But I feel that I’ve got to tell.  Andy, there never was so much as the little finger of a count.  I never had a beau in my life.  But all the other girls had; and they talked about ’em; and that seemed to make the fellows like ’em more.  And, Andy, I look swell in black—­you know I do.  So I went out to a photograph store and bought that picture, and had a little one made for my locket, and made up all that story about the Count, and about his being killed, so I could wear black.  And nobody can love a liar, and you’ll shake me, Andy, and I’ll die for shame.  Oh, there never was anybody I liked but you—­and that’s all.”