“Ethel, Ethel,” Patterson threw out his hand beseechingly. “You are totally ignorant of Barclay’s true character. No, you’ve got to listen to me,” as she drew back. “Or if not to me”—catching sight of Dr. Leonard McLane, who had just stepped inside the drawing room—“then you must hear Dr. McLane. McLane, who is this man?” pointing to Barclay, who had grown deadly white. Only Ethel heard Barclay’s sharply drawn breath as he stood tranquilly waiting.
McLane advanced, bowed to Ethel, and then paused in front of the group.
“Barclay, is it not?” he asked courteously, and held out his hand.
CHAPTER XIV
A STARTLING INTERRUPTION
Walter Ogden’s glance roved around the dinner table as he kept up a brisk conversation with his right hand neighbor, and a sense of triumph replaced his concealed anxiety. The dinner was unquestionably a success, in point of service, decorations, appointments, and the social standing of the guests. Ogden’s contact with the world had taught him not only the value of money, but when to spend it with the best results. He practiced his creed, “dollar diplomacy,” at home as well as abroad. His wife’s success deserved reward, he mentally decided, and picked out a diamond-studded wrist watch at which Mrs. Ogden had cast longing eyes when in the jeweler’s two days before.
Mrs. Ogden, seated between a South American ambassador and a high dignitary of the church who had recently come to Washington, helped herself to the salad with a distinct feeling of elation. The dinner had moved smoothly, no lull in the conversation, no contretemps such as anxious hostesses feel even to their finger tips, had marred the pleasure of the evening. And it had not opened auspiciously. On returning from the dining room with Professor Norcross after rearranging the decorations, she had found Lois McLane standing in the hall, and together they had walked into the drawing room and into a tableau. No other word in Mrs. Ogden’s vocabulary fitted the situation. Patterson’s ill-suppressed fury; Ethel’s flushed cheeks; Dr. McLane’s suave manner, and Barclay’s sparkling eyes and air of elation, all indicated a scene. What it was about she had no idea, for they had talked inanities, all, that is, except, Barclay, who had excused himself and left the room. Mrs. Ogden had heartily wished it was the house—she was commencing to regard her handsome cousin as her Frankenstein monster, and everything transpiring out of the ordinary she attributed to his disquieting influence. He was actually making her nervous. She had seen to it that the width of the table separated him from Ethel, and but for the presence of Maru Takasaki, would have assigned James Patterson to take Ethel out to dinner. But Ethel was most decidedly the proper person to entertain the Japanese attaché, and Ogden had assured her that Representative Patterson and Takasaki and his wife must be put as far apart as possible.
Discovering that the ambassador was deep in conversation with the woman seated on his right, Mrs. Ogden turned to the churchman who was her left-hand neighbor.
“I am admiring your beautiful china and glass,” he said, finishing his salad with due enjoyment.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Ogden smiled delightfully. She greatly respected the bishop, and his benign manner had a soothing influence on her volatile nature which was restful as well as comforting. “I am glad you like it. This is my first winter in Washington——”
“Mine, too,” interposed the bishop, smiling. “We are both in a sense missionaries—you have come to Washington to teach society how to live—while I have come to teach it how to die.”