As a reformer you're ideal. As
a--an imitator of Victor Dorn, you'd be a joke.''
``There's one of his men now,'' exclaimed Hull, leaning forward
excitedly.
Jane looked. A working man, a commonplace enough object, was
standing under the corner street lamp, the water running off his
hat, his shoulders, his coat tail. His package of dodgers was
carefully shielded by an oilcloth from the wet which had full
swing at the man. To every passer-by he presented a dodger,
accompanying the polite gesture with some phrase which seemed to
move the man or woman to take what was offered and to put it away
instead of dropping it.
Jane sank back in the carriage, disappointed. ``Is that all?''
said she disdainfully.
``ALL?'' cried Hull. ``Use your imagination, Jen. But I
forgot--you're a woman. They see only surfaces.''
``And are snared into marrying by complexions and pretty features
and dresses and silly flirting tricks,'' retorted the girl
sarcastically.
Hull laughed. ``I spoke too quick that time,'' said he. ``I
suppose you expected to see something out of a fifteenth century
Italian old master! Well--it was there, all right.''
Jane shrugged her shoulders. ``And your Victor Dorn,'' said she,
``no doubt he's seated in some dry, comfortable place enjoying
the thought of his men making fools of themselves for him.''
They were drawing up to the curb before the Opera House where
were the assembly rooms.
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