This afternoon he was in one of his moods of fine physical exhilaration. He had had an exciting day in the House; but now he turned from all thought of care and looked forward with a boy’s delight to the evening. His wife had asked a few people to dinner to celebrate their establishment in their new house, and for the reception that would follow she had invited nearly everyone in Washington that they knew. As he approached the house he viewed it with a glow of satisfaction. He had secured one of the most desirable corner lots in Washington, and Hanscomb, whom he considered the best architect in the country, had built on it a structure that Briggs proudly considered an ornament to the city. It would be associated with him as other houses were associated with men conspicuous in Washington life. On the sidewalk Michael, the servant whom Douglas Briggs had employed ever since becoming a house-holder in Washington, was supervising the arranging of the carpet on the steps and the hanging of the awning. “Well, Michael, how goes it?” Briggs asked, pleasantly. “All right, sir. The back of the work is broken,” Michael replied, with a grin. He brushed down his thick red hair and rubbed his hand over the perspiration on his forehead. “Have those men come from the caterer’s?” “The naygurs, sir? They arrived an hour ago, an’ ye’d think they owned the place.” “Well, let them own it while they’re here,” said Briggs, severely, apprehensive of Michael’s great fault, a fondness for interfering with other servants and making trouble. “Div’l the word I’ve had with ’em, sir!” Michael exclaimed with a look of scorn. “Very well!” Briggs commented, severely. He was fond of Michael, whom he knew he could trust; but he had to be severe with the fellow. When Briggs entered, a young girl met him in the hall. “Oh, here you are! I’ve been watching for you all the afternoon. Why didn’t you come home before, you naughty man?” She put her arms on his shoulders, and he bent forward to be kissed. “I couldn’t,” Briggs explained; “I’ve been too busy.” “Oh, Guy,” the girl cried, running to the broad staircase at the back of the hall, “Uncle Doug has come.” She turned swiftly to her uncle. “Oh, you should have seen us work this afternoon, Guy and me! We’ve been helping Mrs. Farnsworth with the flowers. I’ve decorated the dining-room all myself.” She seized Douglas Briggs by the arm and tried to drag him with her. “Come along and see.” He drew his arm away gently. “I mustn’t now, Fanny. I’ll see it by-and-by. I ought to get ready for dinner. Where’s your aunt?” “Aunt Helen’s in the drawing-room. She has a caller, I think.” Briggs frowned. “Hasn’t she taken a rest?” Fanny shook her head and looked serious. “I tried to make her, but she wouldn’t. She said there were too many things to do. But Guy and I were attending to everything,” she concluded, with importance. Briggs turned away and smiled. “Children awake?” he asked, as he removed his coat.