“What did you come as?” Farley asked, as he slowly descended the stairs, brushing against the tall palms on either side. From the other rooms music came faintly, mingled with talk and laughter. “I came as a friend of Congressman Briggs,” Miss Wing replied, with spirit. Farley took a seat at a small table beside the miniature fountain. In the little stream that ran through the grass goldfish were nervously darting. “Wasn’t the invitation sent to the office?” He drew out some sheets of paper and proceeded to make notes. He had the air of not taking the discussion seriously. More important affairs were on his mind. “No matter. It was addressed to me personally.” Miss Wing turned for corroboration to Emily Moore, who had sunk into the seat near her. “So was mine,” Miss Moore echoed. Farley smiled, without glancing up from his writing. “How about yours, Mrs. McShane?” Mrs. McShane, who always looked frightened, seemed at this moment painfully conscious of the shabbiness of her black silk gown. But she managed to reply: “I found mine in my letter-box this afternoon.” “It had been sent to the paper, of course,” Farley remarked, decisively, as if expecting no answer. Mrs. McShane nodded. “I’ve never done anything like this before. I do the temperance column in the Saturday paper, and the news of the churches.” The young women exchanged glances. “Oh, well,” Farley remarked, cheerfully, “these ladies will help you out. I’m relying on them for the dresses myself.” Miss Wing and Miss Moore rose and walked to the farthest corner of the conservatory. By some physical expression they seemed to wish to indicate that a marked difference existed between themselves and the shabby, careworn little figure in black. Mrs. McShane looked relieved. Her face brightened. “It’s a beautiful reception, isn’t it?” she said to Farley, in an awe-stricken voice. Farley looked vaguely about the room, as if making an estimate. “Yes,” he said, slowly. “It must have cost Briggs a tidy bit of money.” Mrs. McShane opened wide her eyes. “And the champagne!” she whispered. Miss Wing, who had started to walk slowly back to the table, exclaimed to her companion: “And we didn’t have a chance to see anything!” “Oh, well, you can go in after they’ve finished,” Farley remarked, good-naturedly. Miss Wing assumed an air of decision. “I shall complain to Congressman Briggs of the way we’ve been treated.” “Oh, let him alone,” said Farley. “He’s got enough on his mind. Besides, in our business it doesn’t pay to be ruffled by little things.” “Well, I don’t see why newspaper work should prevent us from keeping our self-respect!” Miss Wing exclaimed, excitedly. “To be treated like a lot of servants!” “Or like people who have forced themselves in, without being invited!” Miss Moore added. Farley, however, kept on writing. “To do newspaper work,” he commented, with exasperating coolness, “you mustn’t have any feelings.”