“Good evening, Miss Deane,” said a soft, purring voice, which Dorothy instantly recognized as belonging to a well-known society belle, who had seen more seasons than she was willing to admit. “For particular reasons I am anxious to attend the breakfast tomorrow which the Japanese Ambassador is giving. Can’t you use your influence to get me an invitation?” “But I have no influence in that quarter,” protested Dorothy. “The invitations are strictly limited to members of the Cabinet and their wives.” “Oh! Don’t you know any way by which I can procure an invitation?” “I see no way for you to be eligible for an invitation unless you can marry the Attorney General, the only bachelor in the Cabinet circle, before ten o’clock,” retorted Dorothy, her sense of fun getting the better of discretion. A faint “Oh!” preceded the hanging up of the opposite receiver, and Dorothy went back to her work. But she was again doomed to interruption, and this time she answered the telephone with a wrathful, “Well, what is it?” “Mrs. Marvin, Dorothy,” sounded a cheerful voice. “I want you to take down this list of patronesses for our charity ball. Get your pencil--there are one hundred names.” “Oh, Mrs. Marvin!” gasped Dorothy. “Can’t you send them into the office? I’ll pay the messenger.” “I haven’t time to write them out,” declared Mrs. Marvin firmly, and Dorothy jabbed her pencil with vicious force into the pad as she started to take down the names. “Hello, don’t ring off,” called Mrs. Marvin at the end of five minutes. “Remember, Dorothy, those names must appear in tomorrow’s paper, and be sure and give us an excellent send-off; it’s for charity, you know.” “Yes, yes, good-by,” and, dropping the receiver, Dorothy rubbed her aching ear and stiff arm. “Taking one consideration with another, with another, A policeman’s life is not a happy one--” chanted a voice from the door, and, glancing up, Dorothy saw one of the reporters watching her. “Cheer up, Miss Deane,” he said, advancing farther into the room. “You haven’t been standing on the ‘sacred soil’ of Virginia for hours in a biting east wind, watching a front door for news. I’m frozen inside and out,” blowing on his hands as he spoke. “But, oh, it’s a big story--” At the mention of Virginia, Dorothy had glanced at him eagerly, but the question burning her lips was checked by the telephone’s loud call. “Do answer it for me,” she begged, sitting down at her typewriter. “Say I’m busy,” in frenzied desperation; “say I’m dead!” And paying no further attention to her companion she commenced her story about the charity ball. Tom Seaton’s voice interrupted her. “The lady wants to know if she can give a dance on January 20th without butting in on a dozen parties that night,” he explained, hugging the receiver against his chest. Dorothy hunted up the date in her assignment book, and slammed it shut with vigor.