“Never mind, Rose,” interposed Margaret laughing; “Louis is a poet and he’s had a terrible experience, he isn’t quite himself!” “I don’t in the least mind being called an angel; I rather like it,” Rose retorted with amusement; “it is only a little startling. What has happened, Mr. Berkman?” “Nothing of the least importance,” he answered, a trifle stiffly; “only Mrs. White is laughing at me.” Margaret still leaned on the door of the motor-car, her face as white as paper against her flame-colored hat, but her laugh was light and careless; the fierce pain tugging at her heart demanded a mask and she wore it gayly and well. “He went to the White House last night,” she exclaimed maliciously. “What new form of insanity overtook you, Berkman?” asked Fox; “went to a crush?--and it wasn’t compulsory either!” “Oh, I’ve repented,” Berkman retorted, with a harsh laugh; “I’ll never be taken alive again!” “What happened?” Rose asked, laughing softly, her hand on her saddle and the reins hanging loose while the horse cropped the dry turf and dead leaves. Margaret’s laugh interrupted again. “Let me tell them, Louis,” she said. Berkman shrugged his shoulders with a gesture of assent, coloring a little in spite of himself. “He got an invitation without the cabalistic sign,” Margaret began, her eyes dancing, “and, in the ignorance of his soul, he went. He was an hour and a half getting in,--you know how they come--two and two--like the couples that left the ark. They had to keep on the carpet; he says one of the ushers kept shouting: ‘move on--keep on the carpet, don’t scratch the floors!’ Louis, did you wear hobnails or sabots?” “I wish I’d worn overshoes!” he retorted disgustedly; “fancy it--I’ve been received at Buckingham Palace and in Berlin and Vienna; it’s the first time I was ever told ‘to keep off the grass!’” “Your own fault!” laughed Margaret, “you should have come to me. He never got into the Blue Room at all! Tell us what you saw in the East Room, Louis?” she mocked. “What I saw?” Berkman drew a deep breath of indignation; “a damned lot of goats like myself; the sheep were figuratively roped off in sacred precincts--I saw you going to supper.” “Served you right!” laughed Fox; “no sane person goes without the open sesame--unless forced to. What will happen when your personality is revealed? You can trust Margaret for that. You’ll be invited to lunch.” “Sha’n’t go!” said Berkman angrily. “Hoity-toity! you’ll have to!” cried Margaret teasingly, “it’s in the nature of a police summons, you know!” “I’ll get out of jurisdiction! I’ll go hang myself,” Berkman retorted, with a reluctant laugh; and then to Rose: “I’ve just seen your portrait, Miss Temple, and it seems Allestree has established his fame; it is beautiful, as it should be.” “I’m so glad you like it,” she replied; “Mr. Fox has just been abusing it.” “He’s a notorious unbeliever!” said Berkman; “don’t mind him; it’s inspired. Mrs. Vermilion hopes to look like it!”