IV

Douglas Briggs stood motionless. His face was hot; he could feel his

pulse beating in his temples. Sometimes he wondered if he betrayed the

fever that the mere mention of that railroad and the scandals connected

with it always caused him. The music had begun again, and he could hear

the dancers and the loud talk, broken by laughter. Some of the voices

he recognized, among them Fanny’s and Guy Fullerton’s. His wife’s voice

he could not hear. He started at the sound of a quick footfall. When

he looked up Franklin West’s white teeth were gleaming at him from the

head of the stairs.

“Oh, here you are!” said West. “I’ve been trying to get a chance to

speak to you all evening.” He looked hard at Briggs, and the smile

faded. “Anything the matter?”

Briggs drew his arm away and West let his hand drop to his side. “Yes.

Farley, of the New York _Gazette_--you know him, don’t you? I’ve

just been having a talk with him--he says the _Chronicle_ is

getting ready to jump on me.”

West lifted his brows with a nice imitation of surprise. “About what?”

“About our precious railroad business, of course.”

West looked relieved. “They can’t hurt you,” he said, contemptuously.

“I’m not so sure about that. A paper like the _Chronicle_ carries

weight. It’s not like the small fry that have been knifing me lately.”

West turned quickly. This time he betrayed a suggestion of genuine

feeling. “But, my dear man, what can they say?”

“They can say what all Washington is saying,” Briggs replied, fiercely.

“They can say I’ve taken money to push that bill through the House.

They can queer my re-election.”

West drew out a silver-ornamented cigar-case and offered it to Briggs.

“You have a very bald way of expressing yourself sometimes. Have one?”

Briggs lifted his hand in refusal, with a suggestion of disgust and

impatience. West deliberately lighted his cigar, puffed it, and then

looked closely at the burning end. “Taking money,” he repeated, as

if addressing the cigar--“that’s a very disagreeable expression! It

isn’t,” he added, with a laugh, “it isn’t professional.” He waited as

if expecting to receive a reply from Briggs. Then he asked, with a lift

of his eyebrows: “Besides, why shouldn’t you?”

“Why shouldn’t I what?”

“Why shouldn’t you take money for the work you’ve done? You earned it.”

Briggs rose from his seat. His face clouded. “Then why should I lie

about it every time the subject is mentioned? Why should I try to

bamboozle that decent young fellow who was in this room a moment ago?

He believes in me. He believes that I’m an honest man, a statesman, a

patriot. He believes that I think of nothing, care for nothing, work

for nothing, but the welfare of the people who elected me.”

West smiled. “He must be an awful ass!” he remarked, quietly.

In spite of his disgust Briggs gave a short laugh. “He--oh, well!” He

turned away as if the sight of West had become suddenly obnoxious.

“Have you ever believed in anyone in your life, West?” he asked,

keeping his face averted.

“Oh, yes,” West replied. “In you, for example. I believed in you the

first time I saw you. I knew you were going to get there.”

Briggs looked at him as if examining a curiosity. “That was why you

helped me?”

“Certainly,” West acknowledged, with a resumption of his large smile.

“You knew that some time I’d be useful to you?”

“You’re brutal now, Briggs.”

“Perhaps I am.”

“One doesn’t refer in that way to any service, however slight,” West

remarked, in the soft voice of conscious politeness.

“True,” Briggs replied, bitterly. “But you must admit the payment has

been rather hard.”

“Most people wouldn’t think so. When you came to me, five years ago,

you were on the verge of bankruptcy, and you hadn’t even begun to make

your reputation.” West looked at Briggs to observe the effect of his

words. Then he continued, with a wave of his hand: “And now see what

you are! You’ve made a big name. You’re a power. You have all the

swells in Washington at your parties. If you had gone under, five

years ago, you never could have retrieved yourself. You know that as

well as I do.”

“And how much satisfaction do you suppose my success has given me?”

Briggs exclaimed. “Since I began to prosper here I’ve not had one

really happy moment.”

West laughed.

“You don’t believe that?”

“Of course I don’t. You’re blue, that’s all. That newspaper man has

hurt your feelings. That’s your only fault, Briggs--you’re too easily

hurt. You want to have everybody’s good opinion.”

“I could get along with my own,” Briggs replied, quietly.

“By helping to put that bill through the House you’re doing the country

a thousand times more good than you’ve ever accomplished through those

reform schemes of yours. You aren’t practical enough, Briggs. Solid

facts are good enough for me.”

“I’ve observed that,” said Briggs, without a change of expression.

“But I’ll tell you what you can do,” West went on, ignoring his host’s

manner, “since that conscience of yours is bothering you so much. You

can vote against the bill. That’s what I wanted to speak to you about.

It would be a very good move just now.”

Briggs looked interested. “How vote against it?” he said, wrinkling his

forehead.

“Simply vote,” West replied, with a smile and a wave of the hand.

“After all the work I’ve done for it?” Briggs asked, in astonishment.

“Who’s to know about that? If you like you can get up in the House and

explain why you’ve changed your mind.”

“_Speak_ against it, too?” Briggs could not resist the temptation

to lure West on. The revelation of the workings of this man’s mind had

a fascination for him; they were strangely free from any relation to

the principles which he had always believed in, if he had not always

practised them.

“Yes. That will turn the tables on the papers that have been attacking

you. It will make you seem like a martyr, too. It’s worth thousands of

votes to you.”

Briggs walked slowly across the conservatory. His curiosity had

suddenly changed to strong temptation. After all, the scheme was

practicable. It was merely another expression of the deceit he had

been practising for years. In spite of his confidence in his safety,

it would be wise for him to take every precaution to protect his

reputation. The attacks on his character by the opposition papers would

probably grow more violent as the time for his re-election approached.

But at the thought of getting up in the House and attacking the bill he

had worked for, of making himself an object of contempt to the very men

who were his partners in the deal, he turned sick. “No, thank you,” he

said, suddenly. “I may have done worse things, but I couldn’t do that!”

For a moment, in spite of the sordid quality of his motive, he had the

delicious exhilaration of feeling that he had resisted a temptation.

West shrugged his shoulders. “It’s what Aspinwall has done over and

over again in the Senate. It doesn’t seem to hurt him. He’s one of the

most popular men in the country--and the biggest fraud,” he added, with

a laugh.

Briggs had begun to pace the narrow walk of the conservatory. He

stopped as if on impulse. “West!” he said.

West looked up in surprise. “Well?”

“I have something to say to you. I’ll stand by you in this railroad

business till it goes through. I’ll vote for the bill, because I’ve

pledged myself to it. You can get along without my vote, I know. The

bill is sure to pass. But if there’s any odium to be attached to me for

supporting it, I’ll take the consequences.”

“Oh! I thought you were a little nervous about your election, that’s

all,” West remarked, carelessly.

The lines running from the corners of Briggs’s mouth deepened. “I’ve

lied pretty constantly so far, and I suppose I’ll go on lying till the

deal goes through.”

“That won’t be till the next session. We never can bring it up before

adjournment.”

Briggs apparently did not hear this speech. “But remember one thing,”

he went on, as if continuing his previous remark, “it’s the last

official work you need expect me to do for you. Any personal service

I shall be only too glad to do. Whatever your motives may have been,

you stood by me when I needed a friend. You made my career possible.

I should be an ingrate to forget that. But we’re quits. In future, I

propose to keep my hands free.”

West rose from his seat and walked toward Briggs. His face betrayed

that he was trying to hide a feeling of amusement. These spasms of

virtue on the part of Briggs always gave him a pleasant feeling of

superiority. “My dear fellow,” he said, laying his hand on Briggs’s

shoulder, “you’ve been a brick through the whole business. Stand by me

till the bill goes through. That’s all we expect. Only don’t try to be

too ideal, you know,” he urged, gently. “Ideals are very pretty things,

but they won’t work in practical politics. If the Government were

run by ideals it wouldn’t last six months. Legislation’s a business,

like everything else that brings in money, and the shrewdest men are

going to get the biggest returns. Think of all the men we’ve known

who’ve been sent home from Washington simply because they’ve been

over-zealous! But I must hurry back to the drawing-room. I’m in the

clutches of two newspaper women. I only broke away for a moment on a

pretext. I’ll see you later in the evening.”

Briggs watched West disappear. Then he sank on the wicker seat again.

This interview was only one of many similar talks he had had with

the lobbyist; but each new encounter had the result of heaping fresh

humiliation on him. He had always disliked West. The first time that

he met the fellow he had felt an instinctive mistrust of him. Now the

dislike had become so bitter that he could hardly keep from showing it.

Sometimes, indeed, he did not try to hide it, and it seemed as if West

only pretended that he did not observe it; or as if, indeed, it only

amused him. Briggs recalled, with helpless misery, the steps by which

he had bound himself to one of those men who used their knowledge of

the law to spread corruption in politics. He had come to Washington

full of ambition and eager for reform, with an inspiring sense that he

had been chosen to be a leader in a great work. Soon he discovered how

small an influence he was able to exert. After a few months, however,

his personal qualities, his faculty of putting himself on confidential

terms with people, made friends for him even in the opposition party.

The first time he spoke in the House, his remarks, faltering and

vague, had made a poor impression. At that trying moment his ease and

eloquence had left him. For several months he was too discouraged to

try again. He found it easy, as many another man had done, to drift

with the political tide. One day, however, he suddenly lost his

self-consciousness in a debate on a pension bill in which he had been

taking a deep interest. He threw himself into it with vehemence, making

two speeches that were reproduced in part by nearly all the big papers

in the country. Those speeches gave him a national reputation. The

leaders in Congress took an interest in him; their wives discovered

that Mrs. Briggs was worth knowing. He felt more pride in his wife’s

success than in his own. He became dissatisfied with his hotel rooms

and took a house that proved to be nearly twice as expensive as he

thought it could possibly be. In return for hospitalities he had to

give elaborate entertainments. His wife remonstrated; he reassured her,

and she trusted him. At the end of the year he owed fifteen thousand

dollars.

It was then that he had first met Franklin West. He recalled now with

shame his own ingenuous dealings with the lobbyist. In spite of his

misgivings, he had accepted the fellow’s offer of help; he had placed

himself under such obligations that only two courses were open to him,

both, as it seemed, dishonorable--to go into bankruptcy and to ruin

his future career, or to become West’s agent, his tool. At the time,

he thought he was making a choice between two evils, and he tried to

justify himself by the exigencies of the situation and by the plea that

his public services more than justified his course. After all, if the

Government did not pay its legislators enough to enable them to live as

they must live in Washington, it was only fair that the matter should

be squared. But it was only in his worst moments that he resorted to

this argument.

Like most buoyant natures, Douglas Briggs often had sudden attacks

of depression. His talk with Farley, followed by the interview with

Franklin West, had taken away all his enthusiasm. Farley, he thought

bitterly, had just said that this was a great night for him. Yes, it

was a great night. It advertised him before the country as one of

the most successful men in Washington and one of the richest men in

Congress. What if the papers did ask where he got his money? They were

always asking such questions about public men. He need have no fear of

them. It was from himself that his punishment must come.

The opening of the new house, this magnificent ball--what real

satisfaction could it give him? He could not feel even the elation of

victory. He had won no victory. This ball, this house, stood for his

defeat, his failure, for the failure that meant a life of deceit, of

concealment, of covert hypocrisy. Even from the woman he loved beyond

the hope of salvation he must hide his real self. He must let her

think he was someone else, the man she wished him to be, the man she

had tried to make him. Their children, too, would be taught by her, he

would teach them himself, to honor him. They would learn the principles

by which he must be judged.

V

“What’s the matter, dear?”

Douglas Briggs looked up quickly. “Oh, is that you, Helen?” He smiled

into his wife’s face and took her hand. In spite of her matronly figure

Helen Briggs did not look her thirty-five years. She had the bright

eyes and the fresh coloring of a girl.

“I stole away just for a minute,” she said. “I got so tired of smiling.”

“So did I. Come over here and let me kiss the tired place.” She

took a seat beside her husband and turned her cheek toward him,

with the amused patience of the married woman who has ceased to be

demonstrative. “I know the feeling,” said her husband, with his fingers

at the corners of his mouth. “Muscles in here.”

Helen sighed. “Horrid, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s all part of the game, I suppose. Whew!”

“What was that for?” she asked, quickly.

Briggs patted her hand. “Nothing, dear, nothing. They say it’s a great

success.”

“I was frightened about the supper; but everything has gone off well.”

Briggs looked into his wife’s face. “Helen, sometimes I wonder what

would become of me if it weren’t for you.”

“What a foolish thing to say, Douglas!”

“Someone told me to-night that I’d been successful here in Washington

because I had such a popular wife. I guess there was a good deal of

truth in that.”

She drew her hand away and let it rest on her lap. “Nonsense! You’ve

succeeded because you’ve worked hard, and because you’ve had the

courage of your convictions.”

“Oh!” In the dim light she could not see the change of expression in

his face.

“And I suppose you’ve had a little ability, too,” she conceded, with a

smile.

For a moment they sat in silence.

“Helen!” he said.

“Well?”

“Sometimes I feel as if I hadn’t a shred of character left, as if I

couldn’t stand this political life any longer, with its insincerities,

its intrigues, its indecencies. Now, these people here to-night--what

do they care about us? Nothing. They come here, and they eat and drink

and dance, and then they go away and blacken my character.”

She turned quickly, with astonishment in her face. “Why, Douglas!”

“I shouldn’t talk like this, dear, especially at this time, when you

have so much on your mind.” He took her hand again and held it tightly.

“Helen, do you ever wonder if it’s worth while--all this?”

“This display, do you mean?”

“Yes; this society business. I’m sick of it. Sometimes it makes

me--well, it makes me long for those old days in Waverly, when we were

so happy together. Even if we were poor we had each other, didn’t we?”

“Yes.”

“And we had our ambitions and our foolish aspirations. They helped to

make us happy.”

She drew closer to him. “But they weren’t foolish, Douglas. That is,

yours weren’t. And think how you’ve realized all you hoped for already!”

Douglas Briggs drew a long breath. “Yes, I’ve got what I wanted. But

the reality is considerably different from what I thought it was going

to be. I suppose that’s true of nearly every kind of success. We have

to pay for it some way. Why, Helen, there are whole days when you and I

don’t have five minutes together!”

“That’s because you have so much to do, dear. I used to mind it at

first. But then I saw it couldn’t be helped.”

“And you’ve been too good to complain. I’ve understood that all along.”

“I didn’t want to stand in the way of your work, Douglas. I could

afford to make a few sacrifices, after all you’d done for me.”

“Never mind. Just as soon as I can break away from Washington we’ll

have a good long holiday. If Congress doesn’t hang on till Summer,

perhaps we can take a little trip abroad. We’ll go to Scotland and hunt

up those people of yours that your father was always talking about.

Then we’ll run over to Paris and perhaps see a bit of Switzerland.

We’ll send the children with Miss Munroe to Waverly and then we’ll

pretend we’re on our honeymoon again. You need the rest and the change

as much as I do, dear--more. We’ll forget about everything that

has bothered us since we began to be prosperous. We’ll be boy and

girl again, Helen. Why, we haven’t grown a day older since we were

married--in our feelings, I mean--and to me you’re just as young and as

pretty as you were that afternoon in your father’s study when I told

you I couldn’t get along without you.”

She had allowed her head to rest on his shoulder. “Douglas!” she

whispered. “Don’t be so silly.”

He bent forward and kissed her on the forehead. “And do you remember

what you said when I told you that?”

“What did I say?” she asked, with a smile.

“You said you’d rather be poor with me than the richest woman in

the world without me. You were a very romantic little girl in those

days, weren’t you? And then I made up my mind to make a great place

for you. That’s the only real happiness that has come out of my luck

here, Helen--seeing you respected and admired by these great people in

Washington, the famous men we used to talk about and wonder if we’d

ever know.” He stopped; then he went on, in a lower voice: “Some of

them I know a little too well now. Oh, ho!” he sighed, “I’m afraid I’m

growing pessimistic. It can’t be I’m getting old without realizing it.

See these two lines that are coming on my forehead. They grow deeper

and deeper with every session of Congress.”

“They’ll go away when you take your vacation, Douglas,” she said,

reassuringly.

“And you haven’t a line in your face, dear,” he said, looking at her

with a husband’s proprietary pride.

She shook her head. “Oh, yes, around the eyes. They’re plain enough

when I’m tired.”

“No matter, you always look the same to me. I sha’n’t ever see ’em,”

he went on, exultingly. Then he sighed again. “What a fine thing it

would be if we could give our poor brains a vacation, if we could only

stop thinking for a few weeks! But for some of us the waking up would

be--well, it wouldn’t be cheerful. Helen, the other night I dreamed

that we were back in the little cottage in Waverly, where we lived

during the first year of our marriage. I could see the old-fashioned

kitchen stove and the queer little furniture, and your father’s

portrait over the mantel in the parlor. It all seemed so cheerful

and restful and happy and innocent. There you were, in that pretty

little house dress you used to wear--the one I liked, you know, with

the little flowers worked in it. We were just two youngsters again,

and it seemed good to be there with you all alone. Then I woke up,

and a thousand worries began to buzz around my head like an army of

mosquitoes, and I had that awful sinking of the heart that you feel

after you come back from a pleasant dream and have to face reality

again.”

“You mustn’t think of those things, Douglas.”

“Mustn’t think of them? Why, they’re the things that keep me happy. If

I didn’t think about those days and expect to live them over again some

time, I believe I’d lose courage.”

“No, you wouldn’t, Douglas. You just imagine that.”

He laughed, patting her arm. “My dear practical little wife, what a

help you are! Do you know, I feel as if I had always been married. I

was thinking of that the other day. I can’t think of myself any more as

not married. I can’t think of myself as apart from you. Have you ever

felt that way?”

She looked into his face and smiled.

“Ever since the very first day we became engaged,” she said, and he

leaned forward and started to clasp her in his arms, when they heard

a rustle of leaves behind them. Instinctively they drew away from each

other. Then they heard Fanny Wallace exclaim:

“Oh, here they are!”

Fanny was out of breath, and young Fullerton was waving his

handkerchief before his face. They had evidently been dancing

desperately.

“Oh, Auntie,” the girl panted, after a moment, “the great Mrs.

Senator Aspinwall is going, and she’s looking around for you, to say

good-night. What in the world are you doing here?”

“Mr. Stone is moping in the drawing-room, sir,” said Guy, respectfully.

“He looks as if he wanted to eat somebody’s head off.”

Briggs smiled and passed his hand over his face. “I don’t believe Stone

enjoys parties. He feels more at home at his club. I suppose we ought

to go, Helen.” He rose wearily and stretched out his arms. “What a bore

it is!” he said. “I suppose we’ll have to stop and speak to some of

those people in the ballroom,” he whispered, noticing a group that had

just come downstairs.

As soon as they had left the conservatory Fanny turned to her

companion. “Uncle and Auntie are just like lovers, aren’t they? Do you

suppose you’ll be like that when you’ve been married ten years?”

Guy lost no time in seizing the advantage. “That’ll depend a good deal

on you,” he said, insinuatingly.

Fanny drew back from him and tried to look taller. “What a horrid thing

to say! You make me very uncomfortable when you talk like that.” But

she could not maintain a severe demeanor for more than a moment. “Isn’t

it beautiful to be allowed to stay up just as late as you please!” she

exclaimed, rapturously. “It makes me feel really grown. It’s almost as

good as wearing long dresses. Just listen to that music, will you?”

She struck an attitude, her arms extended. “Want to try?” she asked,

holding her hands toward the young fellow.

He fairly dived into her arms, and they swung about together, brushing

against the palm leaves and breathing hard. Suddenly she thrust him

back from her and continued alone.

“You haven’t improved a bit. Oh-h-h!”

From the waltz Fanny broke into a Spanish dance she had learned

at school, using her fan with a skill that caused Guy to applaud

enthusiastically. “Oh, isn’t it great!” she cried. “I could dance like

this all night. Look out! Don’t get in my way and spoil it!” While in

the midst of one of her most elaborate effects, she suddenly stopped. A

voice had just exclaimed:

“What in the world are you two people doing?”

Fanny turned and confronted a large, smooth-faced, white-haired old

gentleman, who was looking down in astonishment from the head of the

steps.

“Oh, is that you, dad?” she said, tossing back her hair. “I’m just

practising being in society. How d’you like it?” Then she went on,

glancing at Guy: “Oh, you haven’t met dad, have you? Well, this is

_It_, dad--Mr. Fullerton, Mr. Guy Fullerton.”

Jonathan Wallace walked deliberately down the steps and offered Guy his

hand. “How do you do, sir?” he said, with ponderous gravity.

Before Guy had a chance to speak Fanny broke in: “Mr. Fullerton’s

the young man I’ve been writing to you about--the one that’s been so

attentive this Winter. Here, come and let me fix that tie of yours.”

She gave her father’s tie a deft twist and patted the broad shoulders.

“There! That’s better. Now they’d never know you come from the country.”

Wallace turned to Guy. The expression in his flushed face began to

soften. “You mustn’t mind _her_,” he said, quietly. “She’s always

letting her tongue run away with her. We let her talk to keep her out

of worse mischief.”

Fanny walked over to Guy, who looked as if he were trying hard to

think of something worth saying. “Well, you _have_ been paying

me attentions, haven’t you, Guy?” she said, her voice growing tender

as she finished the question. Then she triumphantly exclaimed to her

father: “Now!”

Guy was plainly embarrassed. He tried to assume a careless air. “Oh,

yes, I’ve been giving Miss Fanny all my spare time,” he replied,

entering into the joke.

The face of Jonathan Wallace grew severe again. “You could find better

use for your time, I haven’t a doubt,” he said, without looking at

the young fellow. “Well, sis, I’m going home. I’ve had enough of this

rabble. I’ve rubbed up against politicians enough in the past half-hour

to make me hate my country. To hear ’em talk you’d think the country’d

been invented to support their families. This is the most selfish

town I’ve ever been in. It’s every man for himself and nobody for his

neighbor.”

“There is a lot of wire-pulling going on here, that’s true, sir,” said

Guy.

“Wire-pulling!” Wallace’s face expressed a profound scorn. “There was

a fellow in the other room mistook me for the Secretary of State, and

he buttonholed me for half an hour, talking about the benefit he could

confer on the country by being made Minister to Austria. Minister to

Austria! I wouldn’t give him a job as an errand boy in my factory.”

Fanny threw her arms around her father’s neck. “Poor old dad! he does

have such a hard time whenever he comes to Washington. Don’t you, dad?”

She drew her hands away and danced behind Wallace’s broad back,

jumping on her toes and smiling satirically over his shoulder at young

Fullerton, who had assumed his gravest expression.

“Then there’s another fellow,” Wallace went on, addressing the boy,

“who’s been trying to work me because I am related to Briggs’s wife. I

forget what he wanted, now. Some job in New York. If I had to stay in

this town ten days at a stretch I’d lose my reason. Talk about serving

the country! Rifling the country is what those fellows are doing. If I

had the power I’d clap the whole gang of ’em in jail.”

“Dad, you are very cross to-night,” said Fanny, decidedly. “You’d

better go home. Think how I feel, having you talk like that before this

rising young politician.”

“Well, sir, if you intend to make a politician of yourself I’m sorry

for you. I’m going, sis.”

Fanny seized him by the lapel of his coat and kissed him twice. “All

right. Get your beauty sleep,” she said, protectingly. “Good-night. And

be sure to put on your scarf and turn up the collar of your coat. I’ll

go down to the hotel and take breakfast with you to-morrow if I wake up

in time.”

“Better be sensible and stay in bed,” Wallace grumbled.

“Good-night,” Fanny repeated.

Wallace bowed to Guy. “Good-night, sir,” he said, as he turned to go

out.

“Isn’t he a lovely father?” said Fanny. “Oh, you needn’t be afraid

of him. I just do this to him,” she exclaimed, twirling her little

finger--“except--oh, I know when to let him alone. Sometimes he’s

dangerous. Oh, here comes Aunt Helen and that horrid Mr. West. What do

you suppose would happen if Mr. West took his smile off? D’you suppose

there’d be anything left?”

Helen Briggs looked surprised at seeing the girl. “Your uncle told me

you had gone away with Mrs. McShane, Fanny,” she said.

“Oh, she found Madame Alphonsine, the dressmaker,” Fanny replied. “So I

wasn’t any use.”

West glanced significantly at the young people. “I hope we aren’t

interrupting a _tête-à-tête_,” he said, with exaggerated

politeness.

Guy tried to assume a careless air. “Oh, not at all, not at all,” he

said, grandly. He objected to West’s amiable air of patronage.

“Let’s go into the ballroom, Guy,” Fanny whispered.

Guy hesitated. He looked wistfully at Helen. “Can I do anything for

you, Mrs. Briggs?”

Helen shook her head. “Just amuse yourself, that’s all.”

Fanny seized the boy by the arm and drew him toward the steps.

“Guy’s always trying to earn his salary. I never knew anyone that

worried so much about it.”

West took a seat on the wicker divan beside Helen. “He’s an exception

here in Washington, then, isn’t he?” he remarked.

“He’s a good, conscientious boy. I sometimes wonder if this Washington

life isn’t hurting him.”

“There’s so much wickedness here, do you mean?”

“So much wasting time,” Helen replied, seriously.

West drew one of the palm leaves between his fingers. “Don’t you think

you are--well, just a little too scrupulous about these matters?” he

asked, keeping his eyes turned from Helen’s face.

Helen laughed. “That’s what Douglas is always saying. You aren’t going

to blame me, too, are you?”

West let the palm spring back from his hand. He tried to look serious.

“I should be the last man in the world to blame you for anything, Mrs.

Briggs,” he said, softly. “I admire you too much as you are.”

Helen took her fan from her lap. He could see that her face had

flushed. “Aren’t we complimentary to-night!” she said, with a smile.

“Do you often say things like that?”

“No. I’m not much of a hand at paying compliments.” West leaned

back and took a long breath. “Besides, it would be very hard to pay

compliments to a woman like you.” He leaned forward and allowed both

his hands to fall to his knees. “Do you know why?” he went on. “Because

you are one of the few women I’ve met whom I really respect. I pay you

the compliment,” he laughed, “of telling you nothing but the truth.”

“That’s the best compliment any woman could be paid, isn’t it?” said

Helen, fanning herself nervously.

West leaned toward her. “But there are some things I have never quite

dared to tell you,” he remarked, in a low voice and with a smiling lift

of the eyebrows. “I’ve never dared, because--well, perhaps they would

be too interesting. There are some things, you know, that it’s very

hard for a man to say to a woman, especially to a woman like you.”

“They are usually the things that are better left unsaid, aren’t they?”

Helen remarked, quietly.

“Perhaps.” He spoke slowly, as if trying to keep his voice steady.

“But sometimes it is almost as hard not to say them. It isn’t always

necessary to put them into words, you know. They say themselves in a

thousand ways--in a look, a tone of the voice, in the lightest touch of

the hand.”

Helen sat suddenly upright. “You are in a very sentimental mood

to-night, aren’t you, Mr. West? I’m prepared to receive all kinds of

confidences.” Her assumption of gayety was betrayed by the expression

of her eyes.

“I was going to tell you something,” West acknowledged. “I think I will

tell you. I’m in love. I’m in love with the most fascinating woman in

Washington.”

“We all know who that is,” said Helen, smiling. “But aren’t you afraid

of the Senator? They say he’s a wonderful shot.”

West looked injured. “You’re laughing at me now, aren’t you?”

“It’s very hard to take you seriously sometimes, Mr. West.”

West apparently did not notice the suggestion of satire in Helen’s

voice. He did show impatience, however, at the interruption that took

place as soon as Helen had spoken.

“Here she is! Everybody is looking for you, Auntie! Uncle Douglas is

out on the terrace with Mr. Stone, and there’s a whole raft of people

waiting to say good-night in the drawing-room and in the hall.”

Fanny Wallace made a pretty picture as she stood half-hidden by the

foliage. Her faithful attendant waited in the background.

Helen rose and turned to West, who offered his arm. “Shall we go? I’m

afraid I’m behaving very badly to-night,” she said.