"I hope there is no reason," he said gravely. "In fact, I am sure there is none, except that you would of course always do exactly as you pleased about that and everything else." "Yes, indeed," Joe answered, and her lip curled a little proudly, "you are quite right about that. But then, you know, I did not send you away." "Thanks, again," said Vancouver. "Do let me get you something more, Miss Thorn," suggested Mr. Biggielow. "No? There is any amount of _pâtés_. You always like"-- "Of course you have heard about Harrington?" said Vancouver in a low voice close to Josephine's ear. "No, really," she answered. "Will you take my plate? And the glass--thanks." Mr. Bonamy Biggielow was obliged to retire. "You mean about the senatorship?" asked Joe. "Yes. The senator died this morning. Harrington will make a fight for it. He has many friends." "Among whom you count yourself, doubtless," remarked Joe. "Not politically, of course. I take no active part"-- "Yes, I know." Joe knew the remainder of the sentence by heart. "Then you will have a glorious opportunity for maintaining an armed neutrality." "Oh, if it comes to that," said Vancouver mildly, "I would rather see Harrington senator than some of our own men. At all events, he is honest." "At all events!" Joe repeated. "You think, perhaps, that some man of your own party may be elected who will not turn out to be honest?" "Well, the thing is possible. You see, politics are such a dirty business--all kinds of men get in." Joe laughed in a way that made Vancouver nervous. He was beginning to know her, and he could tell when some sharp thrust was coming by the way she laughed. Nevertheless, he was fascinated by her. "It is not long since you told me that Mr. Harrington's very mild remark about extinguishing bribery and corruption was a piece of gross exaggeration," said Joe. "Why do you say politics are dirty work?" "There is a great difference," answered Vancouver. "What difference? Between what?" "Between saying that the business of politics is not clean, and saying that all public officers are liars, like the Cretans." "Who is exaggerating now?" asked Joe scornfully. "Of course it is I," answered Vancouver, submissively. "If it is not a rude question, did not that dress come from Egypt?" "Yes." The garment in question was made of a kind of soft white, fluted material over a rose-colored silk ground. The raised flutings followed the exquisite lines of Joe's figure, and had the double merit of accentuating its symmetry, and of so leading the eye as to make her height seem greater than it really was. Cut square at the neck, it showed her dazzling throat at its best advantage, and a knot of pink lilies at the waist harmonized delicately with the color of the whole. "It is just like you," said Vancouver, "to have something different from everybody else. I admire Eastern things so much, and one gets so tired of the everlasting round of French dresses."