Franklin West took the gloved hand, that gave a pressure somewhat more prolonged than the conventional greeting. “I’m delighted to see you here,” he said, the radiance of his smile once more firmly established. His face, Miss Wing noticed, was unusually flushed. She suspected that he was ill at ease. As he spoke he showed his large white teeth, and his brown eyes, that would have been handsome but for their complete lack of candor, wore a friendly glow. Miss Wing considered West one of the most baffling men in Washington, and one of the most fascinating. His features were strong and bold; his chin would have been disagreeably prominent but for the good offices of his thick black mustache, which created a pleasant regularity of outline. His complexion was singularly clear for a man’s, and he had noticeably long and beautiful hands. Miss Wing had often wondered how old he was. He might have been forty; he might have been fifty; he could easily have passed for a man of thirty-five. His was plainly one of those natures that turn a smiling front on life. In fact, Franklin West had long since definitely formulated an agreeable system of philosophy: he liked to say that it was far better for a man not to try to adjust circumstances to himself, but to adjust himself to circumstances; that, after all, was the only true secret of living, especially--but he usually made this comment to himself alone--of living in a city like Washington. At this moment he was adjusting himself to a most unpleasant circumstance, for in his attitude toward women he had a few decided prejudices, one of the strongest of which was typified by the Washington woman correspondent. “Where are you going?” he asked, when he had offered his hand to Miss Moore, vainly searching for her name in the catalogue of newspaper acquaintances. These newspaper people were great bores; but he must be civil to them. “Well, we felt like going home,” Miss Wing pouted. “But now that you’re here, perhaps we’ll stay.” West looked at her with an expression of exaggerated solicitude. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “We’ve been neglected--shamefully,” Miss Wing replied. “They put us in a side-room,” Miss Moore interposed, “with the reporters.” “It’s a mistake, of course,” West remarked. “Mrs. Briggs will be very sorry when she hears about it. Have you been through the rooms?” Miss Wing shook her head. “We haven’t been anywhere,” she said, plaintively. “Then let me take you into the drawing-room. Mrs. Briggs is----” “She’s always near where you are, Mr. West,” Miss Wing interrupted, with a malicious smile. “I feel as if I had no right to appropriate you.” She glanced affectionately at her companion. “Shall we go, dear, or shall we send him back to our hostess?” “I think we ought to send him back,” Miss Moore replied, taking her cue. Miss Wing turned to West, her face shining with generosity. “So run along. We’ll be generous--for once.”