I'll
stick to Stewart hereafter."
She rose with a gesture of nervous rage:
"Well, there's no help for it then. I must ask him. I dread it. Mr.
Lincoln calls me a child--a spoiled child. He's the child. He has no
idea of what these things cost. Why can't a Nation that spends two
millions a day on contractors and soldiers give its President a salary
he can live on?"
She threw herself on the lounge and gave way for a moment to despair.
"He'll give it to you, of course, when you ask it," Lizzie ventured
cheerfully.
"If I'm diplomatic, yes. But I hate to do it. He's harassed enough. I
wonder sometimes if he's human to stand all he does. If he knew the
truth--O my God----"
"Don't worry, Madam," Lizzie pleaded. "It will come out all right. The
President is sure to be re-elected."
"That's it, is he? I'm beginning to lose faith. He'll never win if the
scoundrels in Washington can prevent it. There's just one man in
Congress his real friend. I can't make him see that the hypocrites he
keeps in his Cabinet are waiting and watching to stab him in the back.
But what's the use to talk, I've got to face it to-day--ask Phoebe to
come here."
"Let me go, Madam," Lizzie begged. "I hate the sight of that woman. I
suspect her of nosing into our affairs."
"Nonsense!" was the contemptuous answer.
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