She drew herself away from him. She had a sudden temptation to tell him the whole truth. It seemed for an instant as if this avowal might clear up the whole trouble between them. Then she thought of what the other consequences might be, and she checked herself. “I can’t tell you, Douglas. You must not ask me to meet him again. I can’t look him in the face. The mere sight of him terrifies me.”
He looked helplessly at her, thinking that he understood the full meaning of her words. Then he turned away. “I never thought I should drag you into this, Helen,” he said, bitterly. “I—I don’t blame you. Of course, I know it is all my fault.”
“Then why not undo this fault?” she cried. “Why not——?”
He held out his hand despairingly. “Don’t!” he exclaimed. “You don’t understand. You can’t. You women never can.”
She dried her eyes and was about to leave the room. “Since you are determined not to have him here,” her husband remarked, with a resumption of reproach in his tone, “I’ll not ask him to stay. I’ll offer some excuse.”
During the rest of the day they did not refer to West again. The next morning Briggs looked for a letter from him from Boston, but none came. Two days later he received a brief note that West had dictated to his stenographer in Washington. Pressing business had called him home; he had not even stopped over in New York. So that scene with Helen might have been avoided, after all, Briggs thought, with a sigh. He tried to forget about the episode, however, and during the next few days the pressure of campaign work absorbed him. The Citizens’ Club had endorsed his candidacy, and their support, he believed, would more than counterbalance the opposition within his own party. During the day he either received the crowds of importunate visitors, chiefly constituents with axes to grind, who seemed to think his time belonged to them, or he was working up the speeches that he was to deliver at night. He had long before ceased to write out what he intended to say; a few notes written on a card gave him all the cues he needed. He spent considerable time, however, in poring over statistics and over newspapers, from which he culled most of his material.
One morning, about two weeks before the election was to be held, Michael appeared in the library with a card and the announcement that the lady was waiting in the reception room.
“Miss Wing!” said Briggs, absently. “Where have I seen that name? What can she want with me?” Then his face brightened. “Oh, yes, I remember.” He looked serious again. “Why should she come here, to take up my time? I don’t believe I—Well, show her in, Michael,” he said, impatiently.
Miss Wing wore one of her most extravagant frocks. When Douglas Briggs offered his hand and greeted her, her face grew radiant.
“How good of you to remember me, Congressman. But then it’s part of your business to remember people, isn’t it?” she said, archly.