Allestree slightly shrugged his shoulders. “So I supposed,” he said dryly, and signalled his car.
II
A FEW hours later William Fox presented himself at the home of the new Cabinet minister. He was an intimate habitué of the house; a fact which created no little comment in social and political circles, for Fox and White were naturally almost antipodal personalities and had often engaged in political controversies, which had inevitably ended in White’s defeat at the hands of his daring and brilliant adversary. But it was not their antipathies or their rivalries in politics which aroused the gossip, of which Fox was vaguely and carelessly aware, but the presupposed existence of an old sentimental relation between him and White’s wife. However, gossip of all kinds troubled Fox but little, and he followed his own inclinations with the indolent egoism of a man who has been for many years the spoiled darling of fortune.
The house was one of the old landmarks of Washington, and the true values of space and effect were consequently somewhat diminished by low ceilings and small old-fashioned doors. As Fox entered he heard the buzz of conversation in the distance, in more tongues than English, and when the butler announced him he came upon a group of dinner guests who were gathered around the immense fireplace at the end of the ballroom—a huge addition to the original house especially designed for the elaborate entertainments for which the host and hostess were already famous—and the warm glow of the leaping fire increased the effect and brilliance of the scene.
At his name his hostess detached herself from the group and tossing her cigarette into the fire held out her hand in greeting. “You inconsequent wretch!” she said, shaking an admonishing finger, “late as usual—we expected you to dinner and M. de Caillou tells us that, instead, you made a great speech! Pray, what became of you afterwards?”
“Total oblivion for the space of three hours,” replied Fox gaily; “I come now to congratulate you! The next step will be the Presidency, White,” he added, as he shook hands with his host.
“If I can keep you out of it,” retorted the secretary, dryly.
Fox laughed, acknowledging the intimate greetings of the other guests. At a glance he saw that the gathering was as notable as usual, and was secretly amused at White’s attitude which seemed to accept all this as his own achievement, ignoring the influence of his wife. The French ambassador was there, a Russian prince, an Austrian savant, an Italian ex-diplomat, the chancellor of the British embassy, two other Cabinet ministers, a literary celebrity, a Roman Catholic dignitary, and a somewhat notorious French journalist and socialist who had dipped his pen in gall during the controversy between France and the Vatican. Margaret’s usual selections, Fox thought with a smile, and noted that the only other woman was Mrs. Osborne, the former wife of an American ambassador to Russia, whose divorce had created a sensation as distinct and startling as her beauty, which was of that type which somewhat openly advertises the additions of art. A woman, in fact, who had given rise to so much “talk” that the old-fashioned wondered at Margaret White’s complacence in receiving her and even admitting her upon terms of intimacy at the house. But Margaret’s personality was as problematical as it was charming. She stood now regarding Fox with a slightly pensive expression in her gray eyes, which seemed unusually large and bright because of the dark shadows beneath them, while her small head was set on a slender white neck which supported it like the stem of a flower. She was thin, but with a daintiness which eliminated angles, and she possessed in a marked degree, as Allestree had said, the talent for artistic costumes; her slight figure, which had the grace and delicate suppleness of some fabled dryad, had the effect, at the moment, of being marvellously enveloped in a clinging, shimmering cloud of soft, gold-colored silk and embroidery out of which her white shoulders rose suddenly; she was much décolletée, and, except for the jewelled shoulder-straps, her slender but beautiful arms were bare.
She rested her hands on the high back of a chair, apparently listening to all, but actually attentive only to that which immediately concerned Fox and her husband, who were exchanging commonplaces with the purely perfunctory manner of men who cordially detested each other at heart.
“White only pretends indifference,” said Louis Berkman, the literary genius, who was one of the famous writers of the day; “actually he is overjoyed at the exit of Wingfield; that is the very pith of the matter, isn’t it, Mrs. White?”