when we meet, and treats me as if I were something between his
stepdaughter and an almshouse orphan or a police board. It's
perfectly ridiculous, for it's only put on while he is in office,
and he knows it, and I know it, and I'm tired of making believe.
Why, my dear, they change every election; I've had seven of them,
all more or less of this kind, since I can remember."

"But I thought there were two others, dear, that were not
official," said her companion, coaxingly.

Yerba sighed. "No; there was another, who was president of a bank,
but that was also to be official if he died. I used to like him,
he seemed to be the only gentleman among them; but it appears that
he is dreadfully improper; shoots people now and then for nothing
at all, and burst up his bank--and, of course, he's impossible,
and, as there's no more bank, when he dies there'll be no more
trustee."

"And there's the third, you know--a stranger, who never appears?"
suggested the younger girl.

"And who do you suppose HE turns out to be? Do you remember that
conceited little wretch--that 'Baby Senator,' I think they called
him--who was in the parlor of the Golden Gate the other morning
surrounded by his idiotic worshipers and toadies and ballot-box
stuffers? Well, if you please, THAT'S Mr. Paul Hathaway--the
Honorable Paul Hathaway, who washed his hands of me, my dear, at
the beginning!"

"But really, Yerba, I thought that he looked and acted"--