“It’s wonderful how they stand it,” the Senator said, musingly. A delicate moisture had broken out on his smooth, fine face. “But I sometimes think the women bear it better than the men. When I first came here I went about a good deal. But that was more than a quarter of a century ago. The life was simpler then; though, coming from the country as I did, it seemed gay enough. There’s poor Braddon from Kentucky. You knew him, of course. I went down to his funeral the other day. It was this infernal entertaining that killed him--too many dinners. The last time I talked with him he told me he had eaten twenty-three public dinners in something less than three weeks. The wonder is that it doesn’t kill more of them. I suppose it does--only we say they died of something else.” He looked curiously at Briggs through his big gold-framed spectacles. “How do you stand it?” he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he went on: “But you youngsters don’t mind those things as we old fellows do.” Douglas Briggs laughed. “Oh, I’m not so young, Senator. I turned forty more than two years ago.” “But you look very young,” the Senator insisted, amiably. “And I’m always hearing of you at the great dinners. I see your speeches in the newspapers.” “Oh, I _speak_ at the dinners,” Briggs replied, smiling, “but I don’t eat at them.” “No?” the old gentleman asked, softly. “That is, I never think of eating all they put before me. If I did, I should have shared Braddon’s fate long ago. My first Winter of public dinners gave me a fierce attack of gout. Now when I dine out I taste the soup and I eat the roast and the salad. The rest of the dinner I pass by.” The Senator’s eyes twinkled. “Very sensible, very sensible,” he said. He patted Briggs on the shoulder with the kindly patronage of the older man. “That’s why you keep your color and your clear eye. That’s right. That’s right.” He shook his head and his face wrinkled with pleasure. “I only wish we had a few more sensible young fellows like you in Congress.” They clasped hands at the foot of the steep flight of steps. “I hope we shall see you to-night,” said Briggs. The Senator shook his head. “Oh, no; those dissipations aren’t for us. We keep away from crowds. But we’d like to see your new house,” he added, pleasantly. “My wife and I will look in some afternoon.” Douglas Briggs walked down the street with a glow of amusement and pleasure. He felt proud of his friendship with one of the oldest and most distinguished Senators in Washington. He had reached the age, too, when he enjoyed being treated like a young man; it gave him reassurance. As he passed Congressman Burton’s house he noticed a line of carriages extending far up the street. Then he remembered that the Burtons were having a reception. “I ought to have asked Helen to go,” he thought. Then he was glad he had not asked her. She would need all her strength for the night; he had been putting too many burdens on her, of late.