Farley laughed again. “Well, I’ll tell you. You see, in the first place, Briggs didn’t have a professional decorator, as so many people do nowadays. This place doesn’t look like a professional decorator’s house, does it? Do you know why? Simply because Briggs has a wife whose taste is the very best in the world.” Farley’s face brightened; his eyes shone. “You know Mrs. Briggs, don’t you?” “Yes; I was sent to interview her once. She wouldn’t let me interview her, but she was so nice about it I couldn’t help liking her.” “Ah, she’s fine to everyone!” Farley exclaimed, enthusiastically. “I never knew anyone to meet her without--” He checked himself suddenly, and his face flushed. “But we must get down to work. Look here. You’ve been over the house, haven’t you? Well, I’ll describe the principal features as quickly as I can, and you can work ’em up.” “But how about your own article?” Mrs. McShane inquired, anxiously. “Oh, that’ll be all right. I’ve got it half-done already.” For several moments Farley talked rapidly and Mrs. McShane took notes. She kept looking up at him in awe of his skill in observation. What a mind he must have, to be able to see so much at a glance! When, at last, she took a moment to offer a compliment, he replied, with a smile: “Oh, this isn’t the result of my looking the place over to-night,” he said. “I know Mrs. Briggs a little, and I’ve talked the house over with her many times. In fact, I’ve had a hand in it myself.” As he spoke Farley turned at the sound of a footstep on the stairs. His face brightened, and he started to rise from his seat. “Good-evening, Congressman,” he said. Douglas Briggs walked quickly down the steps. The exhilaration of the evening made him appear at his best. His gray eye was clear, and his brown hair, and lighter mustache, closely trimmed to his lip, gave him a look of youth. “Oh, hello, Farley!” he said; “what are you doing here?” Then he observed the little woman at the table. “Why, bless my soul! Mrs. McShane, I’m delighted to see you.” He grasped Mrs. McShane’s hand cordially; then he turned, smiling at Farley. “Great night for you, Congressman,” said the journalist. Briggs shook his head deprecatingly. “For Mrs. Briggs, you mean. This is her blow-out.” Mrs. McShane gathered courage to speak. “And she’s looking beautiful to-night, sir,” she said in a half-whisper. Briggs let his hand rest affectionately on the old woman’s arm. “My dear lady,” he said, in the confidential manner that had won friends for him all through life, “between you and me, she’s the prettiest woman in Washington. But you mustn’t put that in the paper.” Mrs. McShane glowed. “I won’t, sir; but it’s true, just the same.” Briggs glanced from Mrs. McShane to Farley and again at Mrs. McShane. “What are you two people doing in here, all alone?” he asked, in the tone of the host who catches his guests moping.