“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.”