THE CONGRESSMAN’S WIFE

“‘We’ve come back to have another little talk with you, Mr. Briggs.’”

The
Congressman’s
Wife

A Story of American Politics

BY

JOHN D. BARRY

AUTHOR OF
“A Daughter of Thespis,” Etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY ROLLIN G. KIRBY

1903
The Smart Set Publishing Co.
NEW YORK LONDON

Preface

In this story my aim has not been primarily to depict conditions in American politics. This work has already been done far better than I could do it by several writers, among others, by Mr. Brand Whitlock, whose novel, “The Thirteenth District,” shows a remarkable insight and fidelity. I have merely used a familiar condition for the purpose of tracing some of its purely social and human complications. The contrast between the standards a man may follow in public life or in business and those he maintains at home, with his wife and children, seemed to me to afford material worth the attention of the story-writer.

J. D. B.

July, 1903.

“Naught’s gained, all’s spent,
When our desire is got without content.”

THE CONGRESSMAN’S WIFE

I

“Yes, Washington is never finer than now.” The white-haired Senator stood at the top of the steps of the Capitol and looked benignly across the city. The air was heavy with the rich odor of Spring. The trees were putting out their tender green leaves.

Douglas Briggs nodded. “It will be fine for a few weeks. Then we shall have to send our families away,” he said, adding quickly, with a glance at the Capitol, “that is, if they keep us here.”

“It soon becomes unbearable, the heat,” the old gentleman agreed. “We always try to get away before June. I suppose you have to be careful about your little ones.”

“Yes; and then Mrs. Briggs is rather run down, I think. It has been a hard Winter for her—so much entertaining.”

“It’s wonderful how they stand it,” the Senator said, musingly. A delicate moisture had broken out on his smooth, fine face. “But I sometimes think the women bear it better than the men. When I first came here I went about a good deal. But that was more than a quarter of a century ago. The life was simpler then; though, coming from the country as I did, it seemed gay enough. There’s poor Braddon from Kentucky. You knew him, of course. I went down to his funeral the other day. It was this infernal entertaining that killed him—too many dinners. The last time I talked with him he told me he had eaten twenty-three public dinners in something less than three weeks. The wonder is that it doesn’t kill more of them. I suppose it does—only we say they died of something else.” He looked curiously at Briggs through his big gold-framed spectacles. “How do you stand it?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he went on: “But you youngsters don’t mind those things as we old fellows do.”

Douglas Briggs laughed. “Oh, I’m not so young, Senator. I turned forty more than two years ago.”

“But you look very young,” the Senator insisted, amiably. “And I’m always hearing of you at the great dinners. I see your speeches in the newspapers.”

“Oh, I speak at the dinners,” Briggs replied, smiling, “but I don’t eat at them.”

“No?” the old gentleman asked, softly.

“That is, I never think of eating all they put before me. If I did, I should have shared Braddon’s fate long ago. My first Winter of public dinners gave me a fierce attack of gout. Now when I dine out I taste the soup and I eat the roast and the salad. The rest of the dinner I pass by.”

The Senator’s eyes twinkled. “Very sensible, very sensible,” he said. He patted Briggs on the shoulder with the kindly patronage of the older man. “That’s why you keep your color and your clear eye. That’s right. That’s right.” He shook his head and his face wrinkled with pleasure. “I only wish we had a few more sensible young fellows like you in Congress.”

They clasped hands at the foot of the steep flight of steps. “I hope we shall see you to-night,” said Briggs.

The Senator shook his head. “Oh, no; those dissipations aren’t for us. We keep away from crowds. But we’d like to see your new house,” he added, pleasantly. “My wife and I will look in some afternoon.”

Douglas Briggs walked down the street with a glow of amusement and pleasure. He felt proud of his friendship with one of the oldest and most distinguished Senators in Washington. He had reached the age, too, when he enjoyed being treated like a young man; it gave him reassurance. As he passed Congressman Burton’s house he noticed a line of carriages extending far up the street. Then he remembered that the Burtons were having a reception. “I ought to have asked Helen to go,” he thought. Then he was glad he had not asked her. She would need all her strength for the night; he had been putting too many burdens on her, of late.

This afternoon he was in one of his moods of fine physical exhilaration. He had had an exciting day in the House; but now he turned from all thought of care and looked forward with a boy’s delight to the evening. His wife had asked a few people to dinner to celebrate their establishment in their new house, and for the reception that would follow she had invited nearly everyone in Washington that they knew. As he approached the house he viewed it with a glow of satisfaction. He had secured one of the most desirable corner lots in Washington, and Hanscomb, whom he considered the best architect in the country, had built on it a structure that Briggs proudly considered an ornament to the city. It would be associated with him as other houses were associated with men conspicuous in Washington life.

On the sidewalk Michael, the servant whom Douglas Briggs had employed ever since becoming a house-holder in Washington, was supervising the arranging of the carpet on the steps and the hanging of the awning.

“Well, Michael, how goes it?” Briggs asked, pleasantly.

“All right, sir. The back of the work is broken,” Michael replied, with a grin. He brushed down his thick red hair and rubbed his hand over the perspiration on his forehead.

“Have those men come from the caterer’s?”

“The naygurs, sir? They arrived an hour ago, an’ ye’d think they owned the place.”

“Well, let them own it while they’re here,” said Briggs, severely, apprehensive of Michael’s great fault, a fondness for interfering with other servants and making trouble.

“Div’l the word I’ve had with ’em, sir!” Michael exclaimed with a look of scorn.

“Very well!” Briggs commented, severely. He was fond of Michael, whom he knew he could trust; but he had to be severe with the fellow.

When Briggs entered, a young girl met him in the hall. “Oh, here you are! I’ve been watching for you all the afternoon. Why didn’t you come home before, you naughty man?”

She put her arms on his shoulders, and he bent forward to be kissed. “I couldn’t,” Briggs explained; “I’ve been too busy.”

“Oh, Guy,” the girl cried, running to the broad staircase at the back of the hall, “Uncle Doug has come.” She turned swiftly to her uncle. “Oh, you should have seen us work this afternoon, Guy and me! We’ve been helping Mrs. Farnsworth with the flowers. I’ve decorated the dining-room all myself.” She seized Douglas Briggs by the arm and tried to drag him with her. “Come along and see.”

He drew his arm away gently. “I mustn’t now, Fanny. I’ll see it by-and-by. I ought to get ready for dinner. Where’s your aunt?”

“Aunt Helen’s in the drawing-room. She has a caller, I think.”

Briggs frowned. “Hasn’t she taken a rest?”

Fanny shook her head and looked serious. “I tried to make her, but she wouldn’t. She said there were too many things to do. But Guy and I were attending to everything,” she concluded, with importance.

Briggs turned away and smiled. “Children awake?” he asked, as he removed his coat.

“M’m—h’m. Been playing all the afternoon. Miss Munroe’s been a brick. As soon as she got Jack quiet she came down and helped Guy and me decorate the ballroom. Oh, we had the loveliest——”

Briggs had turned away absent-mindedly and started up the stairs. As he passed the door of the drawing-room he heard a rustle of skirts, and a sharp voice exclaimed:

“Why, there’s your husband now!”

He stopped and turned back. “Oh, Mrs. Burrell, how do you do?” he said, abruptly. He extended his hand, and the old lady grasped it with enthusiasm.

“I’ve been all over your house,” she said.

“It’s simply the loveliest place I’ve ever seen. I’ve just been telling your wife,” she went on, “that I don’t see how Paradise can be any better than this.”

Briggs smiled. Then he turned to his wife and kissed her on the cheek.

“Well, it does me good to see you do that!” Mrs. Burrell declared. “It’s the only real home-like thing I’ve seen since I come to Washington.” She took a long breath. “I was saying to Mr. Burrell yesterday that if we didn’t know you and Mrs. Briggs we’d think there was no such thing as home life in Washington.”

“Oh, there’s a lot of it,” Briggs asserted, jocularly. “Only they keep it dark.”

“It seems to me there’s nothing but wire-pulling, wire-pulling, everybody trying to get ahead of everybody else. It makes me sick. Still, I suppose I’m doing a little of that myself just now,” she went on, with a nervous laugh. “What do you suppose I come here for to-day, Mr. Briggs? I ought to be ashamed bothering your wife just when she’s going to have a big party. But I knew it would just break my girls’ hearts if they didn’t come to-night. So I’ve asked if I couldn’t bring ’em.”

“Quite right, quite right,” said Briggs, cheerfully, but with the absent look still in his eyes.

Mrs. Burrell was a large woman with hair that had turned to a color approximating drab and giving a suggestion of thinness belied by the mass at the back. She had a sharp nose and gray eyes, none the less keen because they were faded with years and from wearing glasses. Her skin, which seemed to have been tightly drawn across her face, bagged heavily under the eyes and dropped at the corners of the disappointed and complaining mouth. Douglas Briggs suspected that at the time of her marriage she had been a typical New England old maid. If she had been more correct in her speech he would have marked her for a former school-teacher. As she talked it amused him to note the flashes of brightness in her eyes behind the black-rimmed glasses from which was suspended a gold chain, a touch of elegance which harmonized perfectly with the whole eccentric figure. Briggs felt sorry for her and he felt glad for her: she was enjoying Washington without realizing how much passing enjoyment she gave to the people she met.

“It was a mistake, their not receiving cards,” Helen Briggs explained. “I know their names were on the list.”

“Oh, those mistakes are always happening,” Mrs. Burrell replied, greatly relieved now that she had got what she wanted. “Why, when we had our coming-out party for our oldest girl there was at least three families in Auburn that wouldn’t look at me. How I happened to forget to invite ’em I couldn’t understand, to save my life. But I didn’t try to explain. It was no use. I just let it go.”

Douglas Briggs sighed. Mrs. Burrell represented the type of woman before whom he had most difficulty in maintaining his air of confidential friendliness. For her husband, the shrewd old business man from Maine, who was serving his first term in Congress, he felt a genuine liking. His weariness at this moment prompted him to make one of his pleasant speeches. When most bored he always tried hardest to be agreeable. “There was no need of your asking for invitations for to-night,” he said. “We hope you know us well enough to bring your daughters without invitations.”

Mrs. Burrell softened. Her sharp little gray eyes grew moist. “Well, I think you’re just as good as you can be,” she said. She looked vaguely about, as if not knowing what to say. “Well, it is lovely!” she went on. “It’s splendid having these big entries. They’re just as good as rooms. And those lovely tapestries on the wall downstairs—where in the world did you get ’em?”

“They were bought for us by a dealer in New York,” Briggs explained, patiently. He wondered how long Mrs. Burrell could stand without moving. At that moment the old lady turned and offered her hand to Helen.

“Well, good-bye again. The girls will be waiting for me at the hotel. I guess they’ll be glad.”

As soon as Mrs. Burrell started down the stairs Douglas Briggs turned to his wife. “You must be tired, dear,” he said. “You ought to have been resting this afternoon.”

“Oh, no. I’m not tired, really.” She let him take her hand and she smiled back into his face.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He pressed her hand more tightly. “Only I’m glad to see you again, that’s all.”

He placed his left hand on her forehead and drew her head back. Then he kissed her on the lips.

She drew away from him with a smile. “We haven’t much time. We have a great many things to do yet.”

“I must take a peep at the children,” he said. “I wonder if they’re asleep yet.”

“I think Miss Munroe is giving them their supper.”

The children, who had recognized the footsteps, were at the door to meet them. Dorothy, a fat, laughing girl of seven, ran forward and threw herself into her father’s arms, and Jack, two years younger, trotted after her.

“Oh, you big girl!” Briggs exclaimed, “you’ll take all my breath away.”

She kissed him again and again, laughing as his mustache tickled her face. Jack was tugging at her skirts, trying to pull her down.

“Let me! Let me!” he insisted.

Briggs placed Dorothy on the floor and took up the boy. “How are you to-day, sonny?” he asked, as he let the thick, yellow curls fall over his eyes.

“All right,” Jack replied, contentedly.

“Been a good boy?”

Jack looked wistfully at the governess, a young woman with black hair, a bad complexion and a disappointed face, that always suggested to Briggs a baffled motherliness. He pitied all people over twenty-five who were not married. He valued Miss Munroe, but he often told her that she had no business taking care of other people’s children; she ought to be taking care of her own.

“No, he hasn’t!” shouted Dorothy. “He broke his whip, and when Miss Munroe took it away from him he cried and kicked.”

“Oh—h—h!” said Jack’s father, reproachfully.

“Well, it was my whip,” Jack insisted.

“It’s all right,” Miss Munroe interrupted. “He said he was sorry.”

Briggs walked into the nursery with Jack on his shoulder. Jack, who at once forgot his momentary disgrace, clung to his father’s thick hair.

“Ow, you rascal, let go!” said Briggs. He sank slowly into a chair, and lifting the boy high in his arms, deposited him on his knee. Dorothy followed and climbed up on the other knee. She placed a forefinger between her teeth and looked admiringly at her father.

“Papa, is the President coming to-night?” she asked.

Douglas Briggs took her hand and drew the finger out of her mouth. “I’ve told you not to do that, dear,” he said.

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.”

Helen smiled. “It’s time for Jack to go to bed.”

“Oh, no. Just another minute longer,” Jack pleaded.

“I must go and dress,” said Briggs. “Now, chicks, climb down.” They obeyed promptly, but turned and made a simultaneous attack upon him. He endured their caresses for a moment; then he cried: “Now, that’s enough, I think.” He rose quietly and kissed them. “Go to sleep like good children,” he said.

On the way to their room Helen remarked: “Jack is getting so lively Miss Munroe hardly knows what to do with him.”

“Oh, he’ll be all right,” said Douglas. “I like to see a boy with some spirit in him.”

An hour later Douglas Briggs entered the dining-room, followed by his wife. Fanny Wallace was already there, talking with Guy Fullerton.

“How do I look?” Fanny cried to her aunt, catching up her long gown. “Isn’t it perfectly beautiful? Don’t you just love those fleecy things? Won’t dad be proud of his daughter?”

“You look very well, dear,” said Helen, conservatively.

“Well, you’re kind of nice yourself,” Fanny remarked. “And doesn’t the gentleman look grand?” she added, to her uncle. “Only,” she went on, giving him a little push, “you mustn’t let yourself get so fat.” Then she glanced at Guy. “Do you suppose he’ll be like that when he’s forty?”

“I’ve had a list of guests prepared for the newspaper people,” said Guy to Douglas Briggs. He liked to ignore Fanny’s jokes when they reflected on his personal appearance. “It’ll save a lot of time. And I’ve arranged to have them take supper in a room by themselves. They’ll like that better.”

Briggs, however, had turned to the servant, who had just come into the room. “Take the men up to the big room over the front door, Michael. That’ll be the best place,” he went on, to his wife. “And have you arranged about their hats and coats?”

“I’ve attended to all that, sir,” Guy said, eagerly.

Briggs looked relieved. “Well, I guess we needn’t worry.”

Helen glanced up into his face. “I’m not going to worry,” she said, with a smile.

“Is the Secretary of State really coming?” Fanny asked.

“I believe so,” her aunt replied.

“If he speaks to me I shall faint away. Ugh!” The girl walked over to Guy Fullerton. “You’ll have to do all the talking if you sit near me. I shall be too scared to say a word. This is my first dinner, you know.”

“You poor thing!” Guy began; but Fanny cut him short.

“Don’t make stupid jokes, sir!”

Helen Briggs turned to the girl. “I’m only afraid you’ll talk too much, Fanny.”

“If she does, we’ll send her from the table,” said Briggs.

Fanny wrinkled her nose at her uncle. “That funny little Frenchman’s to sit on my left,” she said, turning to Guy. “Oh, I won’t do a thing to him!”

“I want you to be particularly nice to young Clinton, of the British Embassy,” Briggs replied. “He’s a first-rate fellow, but very shy. I think perhaps you’ll amuse him.”

Guy at once looked uncomfortable. Fanny observed him, and laughed. “I expect to have a lovely time,” she said, casting down her eyes demurely.

“Who’s going to take you out?” Briggs asked, glancing first at Fanny and then at Guy.

“Mr. West,” Guy promptly replied.

Briggs looked puzzled. “What did you put her with him for?”

Fanny smiled knowingly. “Perhaps because he thought I’d be out of danger,” she said demurely.

Briggs turned away impatiently. “Well, don’t you dare to flirt with him, Fanny. He’s really dangerous.”

Guy’s face looked anxious. “It isn’t too late to change the arrangement,” he said, wistfully, and they all laughed.

“Is it true that Mr. West is so wicked, Uncle Doug?” Fanny asked. “The newspapers say awful things about him.”

“Well, the newspapers say awful things about everybody. They say awful things about me.”

“Then they tell great big lies,” Fanny cried, rushing forward and throwing her arms around her uncle’s neck.

“Fanny,” Mrs. Briggs remonstrated, “you’ll get your dress all ruffled.”

“Well, never mind,” said Fanny, philosophically, and she smiled at her uncle. “I’d just like to meet someone that had been talking about you.”

“Gee, it’s a good thing you aren’t a man,” Guy remarked with a shake of his head.

“Won’t she be a terrible little boss when she gets married?” Briggs exclaimed, with a knowing look at the young fellow.

“I’m going to be just like Auntie,” said Fanny, and Briggs laughed aloud.

“Then you’ll have to begin to change mighty quick.”

The door-bell rang and a few moments later the first guest appeared in the drawing-room. During the next few moments several other guests arrived and Fanny was kept busy helping her aunt to keep them amused until dinner was announced. The announcement was delayed by the tardiness of the Secretary of State, who was known for his punctuality in business and for his indifference and unpunctuality in social matters. When, finally, the great man entered, walking quickly but maintaining, nevertheless, an air of deliberateness and suavity, Fanny breathed a sigh of relief. She turned to Franklin West, who had taken his place beside her.

“I’m starving,” she said.

“You poor child.” He looked down at her with his fine dark eyes.

“And yet I’m terribly frightened.”

“At what?” he said with a smile.

“Oh, all these wonderful men with their queer wives. Why do great men marry such funny women, do you suppose?”

“Be careful, little girl,” West whispered.

Fanny shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not very diplomatic, am I?”

“Perhaps you’ll learn to be as you grow older,” he said, smiling again. “Diplomacy usually comes with age. It’s only the very young who can afford to be frank. It’s one of the graces of youth.”

Fanny flushed. “I believe you are making fun of me, Mr. West.”

“Oh, no,” West replied, gallantly. “I’m merely telling you the truth.”

The butler had entered and announced dinner and the procession was about to start for the dining-room. “Don’t you think this is positively languishing, Mr. West?” said Fanny, as she took the arm offered her, and when he laughed aloud, she went on: “It’s been the dream of my life to go to a dinner-party.” She sighed deeply. “And yet there’s something sad when your dream is realized, isn’t there?”

“Well, I must say you’re complimentary, Miss Fanny,” West exclaimed.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean anything personal to you.”

“What did you mean then?”

“Well, I guess I mean that there won’t ever be any first dinner-party for me again. I’m just foolish, that’s all.”

After helping Fanny in her seat, West took his place beside her. He had been bored on learning that this child was to be his table companion; now he felt somewhat amused.

“I can’t say that any of my dreams have been realized,” he remarked, unfolding his napkin.

“You poor thing!” Fanny cried. Then she looked searchingly at his face. “You don’t show any very great disappointment.”

Fanny glanced quickly around the table: many of the faces were partly concealed from her by the masses of roses and ferns in the centre. There was Guy, talking with that queer little woman from the Argentine Republic, the wife of an under-secretary or something. Fanny wondered vaguely how she had happened to be invited. Oh, she was supposed to be intellectual or literary or something like that. Then Fanny smiled at the thought of the way poor Guy would be bored. Suddenly she turned to Franklin West.

“Who do you think is the prettiest woman here?”

“The prettiest woman?” West repeated, gallantly, emphasizing the noun. “Well, I don’t think I should have to hesitate long about that.”

“Well, who?”

“Mrs. Douglas Briggs, of course.”

Fanny’s eyes rested affectionately on her aunt. “Of course,” she agreed. “But somehow,” she went on, “I never think about Auntie as pretty. I just think of her as good. I don’t believe she ever had a mean thought or did a mean thing in her life. Don’t you think she’s perfectly lovely?” she asked, inconsistently. Fanny looked up into West’s face and noticed that it had flushed deeply.

“Yes, she is perfectly lovely,” he repeated in a low voice.

“Now, if I were a man I’d fall head over heels in love with her.”

“And then what would happen?” West asked, without taking his eyes off Mrs. Briggs’s face.

“Why, I’d marry her, of course.”

“And what would become of Mr. Briggs?”

“Uncle Doug?” Fanny asked in surprise. “Oh, I’d have fallen in love long before he came along.”

“But suppose you’d fallen in love after he came along?”

Fanny wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like to suppose unpleasant things,” she replied. “Anyway, there’s only one man in the world good enough for her.”

“Who’s that?”

“The man that she married, of course,” Fanny exclaimed.

The dinner proved to be a perfect success. When the great men at the table learned that it was Fanny Wallace’s first dinner-party they paid her such attention that she let herself go completely and kept them laughing by her naïve impertinences. The sight of young Clinton gave Guy Fullerton deep relief; he knew that the blotched-faced, thin and anæmic Englishman, with the ponderous manner of the embryonic statesman, would appeal only to Fanny’s sense of humor. Fanny, indeed, was the centre of interest throughout the dinner; even the great men’s wives petted her. When the ladies left the table to go into the drawing-room Helen had a chance to whisper to her: “My dear, you’ve been splendid. I sha’n’t dare give any more dinner-parties without you.”

“Oh, aren’t they lovely?” Fanny cried, rolling her eyes. “Only I talked so much I forgot all about eating anything. I’m actually hungry.”

The guests for the reception began to arrive shortly after nine o’clock. Long before this hour, however, the sidewalk near the house was crowded with curiosity-seekers, in which the colored population of Washington was numerously represented. Guy hurried from point to point, giving directions to the servants, offering greetings, and showing his fine, white teeth in frank, boyish enjoyment of his importance. As the newspaper people came, he exaggerated his cordiality; some of the men he addressed by their first names. “You’ll find the list of guests all ready for you, old man,” he remarked, placing his hand on the shoulder of one of them, “in the little room just leading off the dining-room. Down there. And there’s everything else you can want, there at the sideboard,” he added, significantly, with the consciousness of being very much a man of the world. “I knew you newspaper people would like to have a place to yourselves.”

II

“Well, I guess I am mad! I’ve never been treated so in all my life!”

Miss Beatrice Wing swept indignantly down the stairs into the conservatory. The interior of the house, planned after the Colonial fashion, was filled with surprising little flights of steps and with delightful irregularities.

“Still, it was a very good supper,” said Mrs. McShane behind her. She kept hesitating before the younger woman’s elaborate train. Her voice was one of those plaintive little pipes that belong to many small and timid women. Compared with Miss Wing and her radiant millinery, she seemed shriveled and impoverished.

“Oh, what difference does it make, anyway?” This time the voice was loud and sonorous. It came from William Farley, Washington correspondent of the New York Gazette, a thick-set man with a face that was boyish in spite of the fine web of wrinkles around each eye. He looked the personification of amiability, and was plainly amused by the young woman’s indignation.

Miss Wing sank into one of the wicker seats and proceeded to fan herself vigorously, throwing back her head and letting the light flash from the gems on her round, white neck. “Well, I believe in standing on your dignity.”

“I didn’t know we had any,” said Farley, with a laugh.

Miss Wing turned to a young woman who was extravagantly dressed in a gray-flowered silk, and who had just followed Mrs. McShane down the steps. “Listen to that, will you, Emily? I once heard Mrs. Briggs say that she hated newspaper people,” she added, to the group.

Farley looked down from the head of the steps and smiled pleasantly. “That doesn’t sound like Mrs. Briggs!”

Miss Wing sat bolt upright and let her fan drop into her lap. “Well, if I had known we were going to be shoved off for supper to a side room like that, I’d never have come. I didn’t come as a reporter, anyway.”

“What did you come as?” Farley asked, as he slowly descended the stairs, brushing against the tall palms on either side. From the other rooms music came faintly, mingled with talk and laughter.

“I came as a friend of Congressman Briggs,” Miss Wing replied, with spirit.

Farley took a seat at a small table beside the miniature fountain. In the little stream that ran through the grass goldfish were nervously darting. “Wasn’t the invitation sent to the office?” He drew out some sheets of paper and proceeded to make notes. He had the air of not taking the discussion seriously. More important affairs were on his mind.

“No matter. It was addressed to me personally.” Miss Wing turned for corroboration to Emily Moore, who had sunk into the seat near her.

“So was mine,” Miss Moore echoed.

Farley smiled, without glancing up from his writing. “How about yours, Mrs. McShane?”

Mrs. McShane, who always looked frightened, seemed at this moment painfully conscious of the shabbiness of her black silk gown. But she managed to reply: “I found mine in my letter-box this afternoon.”

“It had been sent to the paper, of course,” Farley remarked, decisively, as if expecting no answer.

Mrs. McShane nodded. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I do the temperance column in the Saturday paper, and the news of the churches.”

The young women exchanged glances.

“Oh, well,” Farley remarked, cheerfully, “these ladies will help you out. I’m relying on them for the dresses myself.”

Miss Wing and Miss Moore rose and walked to the farthest corner of the conservatory. By some physical expression they seemed to wish to indicate that a marked difference existed between themselves and the shabby, careworn little figure in black.

Mrs. McShane looked relieved. Her face brightened. “It’s a beautiful reception, isn’t it?” she said to Farley, in an awe-stricken voice.

Farley looked vaguely about the room, as if making an estimate. “Yes,” he said, slowly. “It must have cost Briggs a tidy bit of money.”

Mrs. McShane opened wide her eyes. “And the champagne!” she whispered.

Miss Wing, who had started to walk slowly back to the table, exclaimed to her companion:

“And we didn’t have a chance to see anything!”

“Oh, well, you can go in after they’ve finished,” Farley remarked, good-naturedly.

Miss Wing assumed an air of decision. “I shall complain to Congressman Briggs of the way we’ve been treated.”

“Oh, let him alone,” said Farley. “He’s got enough on his mind. Besides, in our business it doesn’t pay to be ruffled by little things.”

“Well, I don’t see why newspaper work should prevent us from keeping our self-respect!” Miss Wing exclaimed, excitedly. “To be treated like a lot of servants!”

“Or like people who have forced themselves in, without being invited!” Miss Moore added.

Farley, however, kept on writing. “To do newspaper work,” he commented, with exasperating coolness, “you mustn’t have any feelings.”

“The people you meet certainly don’t!” snapped Miss Moore.

Miss Wing turned in the direction of the drawing-room, where, from the sound of voices, most of the guests seemed to be gathering. “Well, I’d like to know who these people are, that they presume to treat us so,” she said, speaking in a loud voice, as if she wished to be overheard. “Who is Mrs. Briggs, anyway? And who are all this rag-and-bobtail? The Wings of Virginia have something back of them. They haven’t got their respectability from political trickery, anyway.”

Mrs. McShane, who had been sitting, with bewilderment in her eyes, as if hardly knowing what to do, suddenly appealed to Farley. “I’ve got to get my copy in by one o’clock at the latest,” she said in a whisper. “It must be nearly twelve now.”

“Come and get down to work, then, before anyone comes in here,” Farley replied. “I suppose you have the list of guests that young Fullerton passed round?”

As Mrs. McShane and Farley bent over the table, the butler entered, bearing a tray covered with cups of coffee. Mrs. McShane and Farley took coffee, which they sipped as they worked. The others refused it. As Farley took his cup he said, “Good-evening, Michael,” and the man smiled and replied, “Good-evening, sir.”

“I feel like tearing up my list,” said Miss Wing, as she held the printed slip in her gloved hand. “I see,” she went on, addressing Miss Moore, “they’ve got the Westmorelands down. Is Lady Westmoreland here?” she asked, as Michael was about to ascend the steps.

“She’s been here, ma’am, but she went away before supper.”

Miss Wing’s lip curled. “Oh, well, they got her, didn’t they?” Before Michael had time to vanish she cried: “And is Stone here?”

“Who, ma’am?” the servant asked, turning again. His manner subtly conveyed resentment and dislike.

Miss Wing repeated: “Mr. Stone.”

“He’s in the drawing-room, ma’am; I just saw him in there.”

Miss Wing turned to her companion. “Just think of their having Stone here! Suppose we go and see if we can find him? I’d like to see how he looks in society. I shouldn’t be surprised to find him in his shirt sleeves. Well, Congressman Briggs knows which side his bread is buttered on. He keeps solid with the Boss.”

Farley stopped work for a moment. “I wonder who prepared this list!” he said to Mrs. McShane. “Good idea!”

“How do you happen to be doing society work, Mr. Farley?” the old woman asked.

Farley smiled. “Well, it is rather out of my line, I must admit. If I had to do this sort of thing very much I’d quit the business. But our little Miss Carey is sick, and she was afraid she’d lose her job if she didn’t cover this.”

The wistful look deepened in Mrs. McShane’s face. “So you said you’d do it! You must have a kind heart, Mr. Farley. Oh, I wish they’d give a description of the dresses with the list of guests!” she added, despairingly. “It would save us a lot of bother.”

“I’ve a good mind to fake my stuff about the frocks,” Miss Wing interposed.

Mrs. McShane looked shocked. “But suppose your managing editor should find it out?”

“Pooh! What do editors know about frocks?” Miss Wing spoke with a fine superiority. “I’ve noticed that they always like my faked things best, anyway.”

“You have a wonderful imagination, dear,” Miss Moore remarked, admiringly.

“Well, I don’t know how I’d ever get through my articles if I didn’t. The last time I went over to New York I called on all the leading women tailors and dressmakers, and I couldn’t get a thing out of them, and the next day I had to write five thousand words on the new Spring fashions.”

Miss Moore rolled her eyes. “What in the world did you do?” she said, with an affectation of voice and manner that suggested years of practice.

Miss Wing smiled. “Well,” she replied, after a moment, “I had a perfectly beautiful time writing that article. I made up everything in it. I prophesied the most extraordinary changes in women’s clothes. And do you know, some of them have really come about since! I suppose some of the other papers copied my stuff. And then, I actually invented some new materials!”

The pupils of Miss Moore’s eyes expanded in admiration. “I wish I had your nerve!” she said, earnestly.

Under the warmth of flattery Miss Wing began to brighten. “And what do you suppose happened?” she said, exultantly. “The paper had a whole raft of letters asking where those materials could be bought. One woman out in Ohio declared she’d been in New York, and she’d hunted everywhere to get the embossed silk that I’d described.”

Farley smiled grimly. “That woman’s going to get along in the world,” he muttered to Mrs. McShane. “In five years she’ll be a notorious lobbyist, with a hundred thousand dollars in the bank.”

By this time Miss Wing had tired of the isolation of the conservatory. The interest of the evening was plainly centred in the drawing-room. “Come, dear,” she said, drawing her arm around Miss Moore’s, “let’s walk about and get a look at the people.”

As the two women started to mount the steps they were met by Franklin West, whose smiling face suddenly lost and resumed its radiance as his eyes caught sight of them. The effect was not unlike that of the winking of an electric light. The women either did not observe, or they deliberately ignored the effect upon him of the encounter, or possibly they misinterpreted it. At any rate, it made no appreciable diminution of their own expression of pleasure.

Miss Wing extended her hand. “Why, how do you do, Mr. West?” Miss Moore only smiled; in the presence of her companion she seemed instinctively to reduce herself to a subordinate position.

Franklin West took the gloved hand, that gave a pressure somewhat more prolonged than the conventional greeting. “I’m delighted to see you here,” he said, the radiance of his smile once more firmly established. His face, Miss Wing noticed, was unusually flushed. She suspected that he was ill at ease. As he spoke he showed his large white teeth, and his brown eyes, that would have been handsome but for their complete lack of candor, wore a friendly glow. Miss Wing considered West one of the most baffling men in Washington, and one of the most fascinating. His features were strong and bold; his chin would have been disagreeably prominent but for the good offices of his thick black mustache, which created a pleasant regularity of outline. His complexion was singularly clear for a man’s, and he had noticeably long and beautiful hands. Miss Wing had often wondered how old he was. He might have been forty; he might have been fifty; he could easily have passed for a man of thirty-five. His was plainly one of those natures that turn a smiling front on life. In fact, Franklin West had long since definitely formulated an agreeable system of philosophy: he liked to say that it was far better for a man not to try to adjust circumstances to himself, but to adjust himself to circumstances; that, after all, was the only true secret of living, especially—but he usually made this comment to himself alone—of living in a city like Washington. At this moment he was adjusting himself to a most unpleasant circumstance, for in his attitude toward women he had a few decided prejudices, one of the strongest of which was typified by the Washington woman correspondent.

“Where are you going?” he asked, when he had offered his hand to Miss Moore, vainly searching for her name in the catalogue of newspaper acquaintances. These newspaper people were great bores; but he must be civil to them.

“Well, we felt like going home,” Miss Wing pouted. “But now that you’re here, perhaps we’ll stay.”

West looked at her with an expression of exaggerated solicitude. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

“We’ve been neglected—shamefully,” Miss Wing replied.

“They put us in a side-room,” Miss Moore interposed, “with the reporters.”

“It’s a mistake, of course,” West remarked. “Mrs. Briggs will be very sorry when she hears about it. Have you been through the rooms?”

Miss Wing shook her head. “We haven’t been anywhere,” she said, plaintively.

“Then let me take you into the drawing-room. Mrs. Briggs is——”

“She’s always near where you are, Mr. West,” Miss Wing interrupted, with a malicious smile. “I feel as if I had no right to appropriate you.” She glanced affectionately at her companion. “Shall we go, dear, or shall we send him back to our hostess?”

“I think we ought to send him back,” Miss Moore replied, taking her cue.

Miss Wing turned to West, her face shining with generosity. “So run along. We’ll be generous—for once.”

For a moment West looked confused. Then he recovered himself. “I certainly do admire Mrs. Briggs, but that doesn’t keep me—” he assumed his most intense look—“from admiring others.”

Miss Wing threw back her fine shoulders. “Oh, if you’re going to pay compliments, we’ll certainly keep you. Come along, dear.”

III

The departure of the two women with West gave Mrs. McShane and Farley a chance to work rapidly for several moments. Mrs. McShane, whose years of experience had not developed speed in writing, kept glancing every now and then at Farley in admiration of his skill. He was evidently preparing a general description of the evening, which promised to be remembered, according to Mrs. McShane’s report, “as one of the most brilliant events in a Washington Winter remarkable for the brilliancy of its entertainments.” The old woman had read that phrase somewhere, and she had already used it several times, each time with a growing fear of detection by her editors. But for such sonorous phrases she would have had some difficulty in continuing her newspaper work. During one of her pauses Farley remarked, pleasantly:

“Inspiration given out, Mrs. McShane?”

“Oh, if I could only compose like you, Mr. Farley!” she replied, enviously.

Farley laughed. “I guess you’ll be all right,” he said.

“Sometimes I think I oughtn’t ever to have gone into newspaper work,” the old woman went on, pathetically. “I don’t know enough.”

“Oh, you don’t have to know anything to do this kind of work,” said Farley. Then he felt sorry. He looked up quickly, but Mrs. McShane had apparently noticed nothing in the remark to wound her feelings.

“Perhaps I can help you,” Farley went on, in a kindly tone. “I’ve been trying to do my article in a different way from the usual society article. I should think people would get sick of reading the same old things about the entertainments here. Besides, this party is given more to show off Briggs’s house than anything else; so I’ve been giving up a lot of space to a description of the place itself. It’s one of Hanscomb’s houses, you know—that big Boston architect, who’s been getting such a lot of advertising lately. He’s one of the best men in his line we’ve ever had. He’s modeled it on the Colonial style, which is fashionable again. I know a little something about architecture. I studied it once for six months in New York, before I began newspaper work. So I’m sort of spreading myself. Now, you might do something like that.”

“But that wouldn’t be fair to you, Mr. Farley,” said the old woman.

“No, I don’t mean that,” Farley went on. “You might make a lot out of the floral decorations and the color scheme in the rooms. People like to hear about those things. Didn’t you notice how the library was in Empire——?”

The old woman shook her head. “Oh, I don’t understand about these things,” she interrupted. “I don’t know enough.”

Farley laughed again. “Well, I’ll tell you. You see, in the first place, Briggs didn’t have a professional decorator, as so many people do nowadays. This place doesn’t look like a professional decorator’s house, does it? Do you know why? Simply because Briggs has a wife whose taste is the very best in the world.” Farley’s face brightened; his eyes shone. “You know Mrs. Briggs, don’t you?”

“Yes; I was sent to interview her once. She wouldn’t let me interview her, but she was so nice about it I couldn’t help liking her.”

“Ah, she’s fine to everyone!” Farley exclaimed, enthusiastically. “I never knew anyone to meet her without—” He checked himself suddenly, and his face flushed. “But we must get down to work. Look here. You’ve been over the house, haven’t you? Well, I’ll describe the principal features as quickly as I can, and you can work ’em up.”

“But how about your own article?” Mrs. McShane inquired, anxiously.

“Oh, that’ll be all right. I’ve got it half-done already.”

For several moments Farley talked rapidly and Mrs. McShane took notes. She kept looking up at him in awe of his skill in observation. What a mind he must have, to be able to see so much at a glance! When, at last, she took a moment to offer a compliment, he replied, with a smile:

“Oh, this isn’t the result of my looking the place over to-night,” he said. “I know Mrs. Briggs a little, and I’ve talked the house over with her many times. In fact, I’ve had a hand in it myself.”

As he spoke Farley turned at the sound of a footstep on the stairs. His face brightened, and he started to rise from his seat.

“Good-evening, Congressman,” he said.

Douglas Briggs walked quickly down the steps. The exhilaration of the evening made him appear at his best. His gray eye was clear, and his brown hair, and lighter mustache, closely trimmed to his lip, gave him a look of youth.

“Oh, hello, Farley!” he said; “what are you doing here?” Then he observed the little woman at the table. “Why, bless my soul! Mrs. McShane, I’m delighted to see you.” He grasped Mrs. McShane’s hand cordially; then he turned, smiling at Farley.

“Great night for you, Congressman,” said the journalist.

Briggs shook his head deprecatingly. “For Mrs. Briggs, you mean. This is her blow-out.”

Mrs. McShane gathered courage to speak. “And she’s looking beautiful to-night, sir,” she said in a half-whisper.

Briggs let his hand rest affectionately on the old woman’s arm. “My dear lady,” he said, in the confidential manner that had won friends for him all through life, “between you and me, she’s the prettiest woman in Washington. But you mustn’t put that in the paper.”

Mrs. McShane glowed. “I won’t, sir; but it’s true, just the same.”

Briggs glanced from Mrs. McShane to Farley and again at Mrs. McShane. “What are you two people doing in here, all alone?” he asked, in the tone of the host who catches his guests moping.

“We’re trying to get some notes together,” Farley explained. “But we’re all at sea about the dresses,” he added, with a smile.

The music had just ceased, and they heard a rustle of skirts in the next room. Suddenly Fanny Wallace stood among the palms. As she was looking back over her shoulder she did not observe the group in the conservatory.

“Isn’t it good to get out of the crowd?” she said, when Guy Fullerton had come up to her. Suddenly she turned and glanced through the palm leaves. “Oh, I didn’t know anyone was here!”

“You’re just the person we’re looking for, my dear,” Douglas Briggs exclaimed. “This is Fanny Wallace, my wife’s niece, Mrs. McShane. She’ll take you through the rooms. She knows all about the pretty frocks. It’s all she thinks about.”

Fanny looked reproachfully at Briggs. Then she darted toward the old woman. “Oh, Mrs. McShane, I want you to see Mrs. Senator Aspinwall’s dress before she leaves. It’s gorgeous.” She turned to the youth, who had dropped into conversation with Farley, and seized him by the coat-sleeve. “Mrs. McShane, this is Mr. Fullerton,” she said, impressively, “Mr. Guy Fullerton. He’s a very important young man,” she went on. “He’s my uncle’s secretary. Think of that! You can come, too, infant, if you like,” she concluded, with a change of tone. “You need to learn something about frocks.”

The young man laughed good-humoredly and followed Fanny, who had unceremoniously taken Mrs. McShane by the arm. As they were disappearing, Farley called out: “I’ll rely on you, Mrs. McShane.”

Fanny replied for the old woman. “We’ll be in the conservatory in half an hour with yards of description. Oh, this is lovely!” she exclaimed, with a little jump. “I always wanted to be a newspaper woman.”