One blowy night in late February, West passed by the brown stone palace which Miss Avery's open-handed papa, from Mauch Chunk, occupied on a three years' lease with privilege of buying; and repaired to the more modest establishment where dwelt Miss Weyland and her mother. The reformatory issue was then at the touch. The bill had come out of committee with a six-and-six vote; rumor had it that it would be called up in the House within the week; and it now appeared as though a push of a feather's weight might settle its fate either way. Sharlee and West spoke first of this. She was eagerly interested, and praised him warmly for the interest and valuable help of the _Post_. Her confidence was unshaken that the bill would go through, though by a narrow margin. "The opposition is of the deadliest sort," she admitted, "because it is silent. It is silent because it knows that its only argument--all this economy talk--is utterly insincere. But Mr. Dayne knows where the opposition is--and the way he goes after it! Never believe any more that ministers can't lobby!" "Probably the root of the whole matter," offered West, easing himself back into his chair, "is that the machine fellows want this particular hundred thousand dollars in their business." "Isn't it horrid that men can be so utterly selfish? You don't think they will really venture to do that?" "I honestly don't know. You see I have turned it all over to Queed, and I confess I haven't studied it with anything like the care he has." Sharlee, who was never too engrossed in mere subjects to notice people's tones, said at once: "Oh, I am sure they won't dare do it," and immediately changed the subject. "You are going to the German, of course?" "Oh, surely, unless the office pinches me." "You mustn't let it pinch you--the last of the year, heigho! Did you hear about Robert Byrd and Miss--no, I won't give you her name--and the visiting girl?" "Never a word." "She's a thoroughly nice girl, but--well, not pretty, I should say, and I don't think she has had much fun here. Beverley and Robert Byrd were here the other night. Why _will_ they hunt in pairs, do you know? I told Beverley that he positively must take this girl to the German. He quarreled and complained a good deal at first, but finally yielded like a dear boy. Then he seemed to enter in the nicest way into the spirit of our altruistic design. He said that after he had asked the girl, it would be very nice if Robert should ask her too. He would be refused, of course, but the girl would have the pleasant feeling of getting a rush, and Robert would boost his standing as a philanthropist, all without cost to anybody. Robert was good-natured, and fell in with the plan. Three days later he telephoned me, simply furious. He had asked the girl--you know he hasn't been to a German for five years--and she accepted at once with tears of gratitude." "But how--?"