THOMAS WALES WARREN
Warren continued pacing his carpet. "It's his future. That's what worries me. If he stays with me he'll become a machine politician a practical, professional politician. He'll have to make compromises. Unless he's an exceptionally strong character he'll become involved in things that aren't—well, pretty. You know what our sort of politics means. I don't want my daughter to marry that sort of politician."
He sat down and leaned forward on his desk to look the astonished Miller straight in the eyes. "The future is with you men. We're fighting a losing fight here. I want you to give this boy a chance with you. I want you to offer him a place as stenographer, either for the League or for you personally. I'd prefer the latter. I know I could trust him with you. I haven't so much faith in your executive committee; I know some of those men of old. But try him. If he's not what I think he is, discharge him."
Miller began, "Well, Mr. Warren—"
"I know what you're going to say," Warren interrupted, rising again to walk. "With my influence in this city I could find him a dozen places without imposing on you. But if he has any training at all it's for political life. And if he's to go into politics I want him to go in with ideals among men who have ideals. I'm not speaking to you as a politician now, you understand, but as a father. If this boy's to have my daughter's future in his hands I want
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