"Why did you not tell me this?"
"Because," the man quietly responded, "I do not war on women."
The door whose latch had clicked had opened wide, and William Handy entered, smiling.
Governor Chatham was assorting papers on his desk, as a man would whose routine work had received a trifling interruption. Handy remained on his feet.
"John," he said, "John, I take off my hat to you. I admire your nerve. I recognized it years ago, that day you presided over our convention in the old seventh district—remember?—the day you turned me down so hard. Remember?"
The governor smiled.
"This ain't flattery," said Handy, seating himself in a leather chair. "You're not only all I've said, you're a devil of a good fellow to boot."
Handy spoke seldom. He never wrote letters, but sent word, according to an ancient maxim uttered by one of the political fathers. But when he did speak, he spoke bluntly, in the same tone in which he would have called a man a liar. The governor raised his hand to stay Handy's compliments.
