"Poor dear man!" she exclaimed. "I felt exactly as if we were having our last dinner together before he went off to the war to get killed. I never spent such a dismal evening in my life. And what on earth made you put on that horrid gown? You look a fright--you almost look older than he does." "Don't turn the knife round, please. I'm rather sorry, to tell the truth, but I didn't want him to be too overjoyed. I couldn't have stood it." "Are you sorry that you have engaged yourself to him?" "No, I am glad--very glad." But she said it without enthusiasm. When she went up to her room, she presented the black gown to Leontine and sent her to bed. Then she put on a peignoir of pink silk and lace and examined herself in the mirror. She looked fifteen years younger and wholly charming; there was no doubt of it. XVII The next day, before starting for New York, she wrote a note to Senator North:-- I am going to marry Robert Burleigh. On Tuesday morning I almost went to your house--to bring you back with me here. I came to my senses in time; but I might not again. I want you to understand. I wish he were not on the winning side. But he is the only man I can even think of marrying. I do not think this much is disloyal to him. But I will not say other things. B. M. Burleigh came to the train to see her off, and Betty looked so charming in her rich brown travelling frock and little turban, and smiled so gayly upon him, that his heavy spirit lifted its wings and he begged to be allowed to go to New York on Saturday. But to this she would not listen, and he was forced to content himself with making elaborate preparations for her comfort in the little drawing-room, and buying a copy of every paper and magazine the newsboy had on sale. "I am sure he will make an ideal husband," said Mrs. Madison, as she waved her hand to him from the window. "He certainly is very much of a man," admitted Betty, "but what on earth are we to do with all these papers? I haven't room to turn round." The excitement in Washington, great as it was, had been mostly within doors; in New York it appeared to be entirely in the streets, if one excepted the corridors of the hotels. The population, still pale and nervously talkative, surged up and down the sidewalks. On the morrow the city put forth her hundred thousand flags. The very air seemed to turn to stars and stripes. The Madisons went to the Waldorf-Astoria, and in its refreshing solitudes felt for the first time in months that they must go in search of excitement if they wanted it; none would reach them here. "Now that the war is declared, I am sorry;" admitted Mrs. Madison, "for so many Americans will be killed." "Instead of Cubans. I've done with the war. I won't even regret."