As they entered the drawing room Frothingham’s attention riveted upon two gilt armchairs ensconced in a semicircle of palms and ferns. “For the President and his wife,” said Ysobel. “They’re dining here to-night, you know. This is the first President in a long time who has accepted invitations below the Cabinet circle. He comes to Senator Pope’s because they’re old friends. It’s quite an innovation and has caused a great deal of scandal. But I don’t blame him. Where’s the use in being President if you can’t do as you please?” Mrs. Pope, stout and red and obviously “flustered,” came bustling up. After she had greeted them she said: “Lord Frothingham, you’re to take my daughter Elsie in to dinner.” Then to Mrs. Ballantyne: “Oh, my dear, why didn’t you warn me of the quarrel between the Cabinet women and the Speaker’s family. Whatever _shall_ I do? Mrs. Secretary Mandon’s here, and so are the Speaker and his wife.” “I’d send Grace Mandon in ahead of the Speaker’s wife, if I were you,” replied Mrs. Ballantyne. “I’ve no patience with the pretensions of the House. It’s distinctly the commonest branch of the Government, while the Cabinet is next to the President.” “But,” objected Mrs. Pope plaintively, “the Speaker is _so_ influential and really fierce about precedence, and his wife has _such_ a tongue and _such_ a temper, and neither he nor she _ever_ forgives.” “Do as you like, of course,” said Mrs. Ballantyne stiffly. Being of the Senate it exasperated her that the House should be placed ahead of it. Just then a murmur ran around the room--“The President! The President!” Those who were seated rose, conversation stopped, and the orchestra began to play. “Bless my soul,” muttered Frothingham, “they’re playing ‘God Save the King’!” And then he remembered that the Americans had, as he put it, “stolen our tune and set a lot of rot about themselves to it.” The President and his wife entered, he frowning and red and intent upon the two gilt chairs. Mrs. Pope curtsied, her husband contracted his stiff old figure in a comical half-salaam. All bent their heads and a few of the young people, among them Ysobel, curtsied. “See him looking at those chairs?” said she to Frothingham. Frothingham nodded. “He’s awfully sour at the etiquette here,” she went on. “I suppose he’s afraid the country’ll find out about it and cut up rough. He’s smashing right and left, and everyone’s wondering when he’ll throw out the gilt chairs.”