CHAPTER XVIIThe great week was over. Even Windlestraws had been faintly stirred by the reverberation of its candidate's doings. There had been dinner-parties every night, and Reggie hadn't shot a bird.
In the town itself, where they almost hurried after ten o'clock every morning, their conflict was as breathless and uncertain as the movements of a swarm of bees when their hour strikes and they drift, a multitudinous crush of swirling lives, hither and thither in the neutral spaces of the air.
Jean couldn't grasp any tangible signs of success. Their cars and the cars of their opponent shot up and down the streets, all placarded and garlanded alike with opposing statements and identical conciliatory smiles. Every one was vociferating pledges they couldn't keep and describing millenniums th
