There were a few preliminary gasps and giggles in the hall, and the two maidens, as sedate and demure as mice, entered. Claire was a little party, with vivacious manners and a comical little upturned face.
“How do you do, senator?” she said. “I’m so sorry you’re laid up. Isn’t it lovely out?” She advanced and shook his well hand.
“Won’t you take a chair?” said the senator.
“I just ran in for a moment. Margaret and I thought maybe you’d like to hear the new campaign song that everybody’s singing. My brother brought it up from Portland—” she paused, out of breath.
“It would afford me great pleasure,” said the senator.
And forthwith Claire sang in a rollicking voice. The tune was the same as that which the gardener had been whistling. St. John recognized it in spite of the difference in the mediums and smiled. Then he smiled because of the words, and presently he laughed. It was the first real pleasure he had had in many a day.
“Everybody is wild about it,” said Claire, when she had finished.
The senator was shaking with laughter.
“That’s good,” he said, “that’s good.”
“Papa,” said Margaret, when Claire had gone, “who do you think wrote that song?”