“Why, Mistuh Beck, who would have thought of meeting yo’ all heah! Ah thought yo’ weh aout fighting Indians somewheah.”
“I’m stationed here now,” the young lieutenant explained, and then: “The world is very small!” he marveled, making that trite remark with the self-evident pleasure that showed he considered it original. “May I?” He laid a hand tentatively on the back of a chair at her table, and bowed low in his pantomime of asking if he might sit with her.
“Ce’tainly,” she said.
“And Mrs. Emerson is well?”
“She takes heh meals in heh room. We ah only waiting heah fo’ heh to recovah sufficiently to unde’take the journey aout to Illinois.”
They were so much together after that that the ladies of the hotel, who could not have known that the young people had become acquainted long ago in St. Louis, reveled in a new subject for gossip and pitied the poor woman lying ill in her room and neglected by a daughter who spent her time flirting with an army officer. Dade, by some spiritual divination, apprehended all they were saying, and took a delight of her own in shocking them. So the flirtation raged furiously, and Dade, by delicate pathological suggestions, developed her mother’s present indisposition into the disease that was her Washington doctor’s specialty.
Beck and Dade had gone to the Capitol one day, and, when Dade expressed a wish to see how the laws were made, had gone into the gallery of the House. Below them the members were lolling in their seats, their feet on their desks, reading newspapers, yawning or chatting, while the business of the nation, or of the party then in power in the nation, was being listlessly transacted.
The Speaker, sitting in his solemn chair, looked small in the distance, the clerks below him bowed over their work. Now and then the Speaker’s voice could be heard, now and then the sharp fall of the gavel startled the common drone of voices. Some member far across the House, beyond the littered sea of desks, was speaking. His voice came to them scarcely at all. He held a bundle of notes in one trembling hand, with the other he now and then pushed his spectacles up on his sweating nose.
A cup of water stood on his desk, and he drank from it frequently in the agony of getting through the ordeal that was necessary to supply the voters in his far-away Ohio district with copies of that speech. By the time it got into the Congressional Record, it would be well parenthesized with applause, and thus paint for his constituents a scene of a decorous, black-coated House, hanging rapt upon his words, and breaking occasionally into cheers that could not be controlled. The members lolled and read, and all about this speaker seats were empty, standing there in wooden patience as if waiting for him to end. At last the Speaker of the House turned from the man to whom he had been whispering, and his gavel fell.
“The gentleman’s time has expired,” he said.