He was red and perspiring, and stretched his neck now and then, that he might press his handkerchief below his collar. "We have been listening to yo' speech, Mistuh Gahwood," Dade said. "Ah hadn't heahd yo' speak since that night befo' the election. Do yo' remembuh?" "Oh, yes," the congressman replied, and he laughed. "That seems years ago, doesn't it?" "Not to me," she corrected him. Garwood bowed, intensely. "Pardon me, Miss Dade, you are the only one who hasn't aged since then." Garwood had drawn a cigarette from his pocket, and as they strolled out into the rotunda, he offered the case to Beck. "No, thanks," said Beck. Garwood continued pinching the cigarette. "Emil--Mrs. Gahwood is not with yo', is she?" "No, poor girl," said Garwood. "She stayed at home this winter. It has been lonely for me, too, without her. I had hoped to have her with me, but she is not well--and then her father's death you know--" Garwood allowed the sentence to complete in the girl's mind its own impression of the lonely wife left at home. "She must be lonesome," Dade said. "Yes--think of having to spend a winter in that beastly little place!" Garwood said, and then he hastened to add with an apologetic smile: "We wouldn't talk that way in Grand Prairie, Lieutenant; would we, Miss Dade?" The two men walked with her between them, and Garwood walked close to the girl. His eyes took in her fresh face, glowing under the dotted veil, and her athletic figure, which she carried as erectly as the soldier by her side did his. "We were going over into the Senate." "Ah?" Garwood responded. "I'm headed in that general direction, not to hear the old men certainly, but down to the restaurant. This business of saving the nation twice a day is exhausting. Perhaps you'd--" "No, thank yo'," said Dade, withdrawing herself subtly. "I shall do myself the honor of calling upon you, Miss Dade," Garwood said. She looked at him. Her eyes were cold. "Mothuh will be glad to see yo', no doubt," she answered, and then she bowed. Garwood stood looking after her, watching the delicate play of the muscles of her back as she walked. Then he placed the cigarette between his lips, and started for the elevators. "He's grown fat!" Dade was saying to the army officer. "He's hoh'id! Po' little Emily!" III It had been a long and lonesome winter for Emily, shut up in the big house emptied of all save its memories. She was still in mourning for her father, and the conventionalities of a society that demands steadfast grief in others prevented her from seeking any diversion, even if she had had the strength or the inclination to do so. Her only companion, besides the servants, was her child, now in his third year and developing a curiosity that exhausted the little vitality that her housewifely duties had not already demanded.