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"--
"You thought of nothing at all, Milly," returned Yerba, with
authority. "I tell you he's a mass of conceit. What else can you
expect of a Man--toadied and fawned upon to that extent? It made
me sick! I could have just shaken them!"
As if to emphasize her statement, she grasped one of the long
willowy branches of the enormous rose-bush where she stood, and
shook it lightly.
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