She jumped and pressed her head against her father’s coat. “Well, is he?”
“I think not,” Briggs replied, with a smile. “I’m not sure that we’ve invited him.”
“Oh, how mean!”
“He doesn’t go to parties,” Jack scornfully explained, with superior intelligence.
“Well, he has parties himself,” Dorothy insisted, indignantly.
Briggs extended his hand between them. “There, there; that’ll do. Never mind about the President.”
“You’re going to be President some day, aren’t you, papa?” Jack ventured, with confidence. “Only I’d rather live here than in the White House.”
“They say the White House isn’t healthy,” said Dorothy, repeating a remark she had heard over the stairs.
“Well, papa, when you live in the White House can’t we come and stay in this house when we want to?” asked Jack.
Helen Briggs, who had been discussing with Miss Munroe a detail of the decoration for the evening, joined the group. “Jack thinks we’ll have to move from this place to the White House,” said Briggs. “He’s worried.”