“We’re trying to get some notes together,” Farley explained. “But we’re all at sea about the dresses,” he added, with a smile. The music had just ceased, and they heard a rustle of skirts in the next room. Suddenly Fanny Wallace stood among the palms. As she was looking back over her shoulder she did not observe the group in the conservatory. “Isn’t it good to get out of the crowd?” she said, when Guy Fullerton had come up to her. Suddenly she turned and glanced through the palm leaves. “Oh, I didn’t know anyone was here!” “You’re just the person we’re looking for, my dear,” Douglas Briggs exclaimed. “This is Fanny Wallace, my wife’s niece, Mrs. McShane. She’ll take you through the rooms. She knows all about the pretty frocks. It’s all she thinks about.” Fanny looked reproachfully at Briggs. Then she darted toward the old woman. “Oh, Mrs. McShane, I want you to see Mrs. Senator Aspinwall’s dress before she leaves. It’s gorgeous.” She turned to the youth, who had dropped into conversation with Farley, and seized him by the coat-sleeve. “Mrs. McShane, this is Mr. Fullerton,” she said, impressively, “Mr. Guy Fullerton. He’s a very important young man,” she went on. “He’s my uncle’s secretary. Think of that! _You_ can come, too, infant, if you like,” she concluded, with a change of tone. “You need to learn something about frocks.” The young man laughed good-humoredly and followed Fanny, who had unceremoniously taken Mrs. McShane by the arm. As they were disappearing, Farley called out: “I’ll rely on you, Mrs. McShane.” Fanny replied for the old woman. “We’ll be in the conservatory in half an hour with yards of description. Oh, this is lovely!” she exclaimed, with a little jump. “I always wanted to be a newspaper woman.” As soon as they were alone Farley walked toward Douglas Briggs. “This is a good chance for me to ask you something, sir,” he said. Briggs smiled. “Have a cigar first, won’t you? Oh, I forgot. I promised Mrs. Briggs there should be no smoking here. We might go out on the balcony or up to the smoking-room.” Farley shook his head. “Thanks; no. I won’t smoke just now. And I won’t detain you more than a minute.” He hesitated. “What I’m going to ask seems a little like a violation of hospitality,” he remarked, with a look of embarrassment. “My dear fellow, there’s no such thing as a violation of hospitality in the case of a man in public life,” said Briggs, pleasantly. “Well, it’s simply this: We want to deny the story about you that’s going all over Washington. It hasn’t got into the papers yet, but I happen to know that the New York _Chronicle_ has it, and is thinking of publishing it.” Briggs looked grave. In repose his face took on years; the lines around the mouth deepened, and the eyes grew tired and dull. “What story?” “Why, the story that you are in that Transcontinental Railway deal.”