“Yes,” said Madeleine; “he was here last evening with Mr. Carrington and one or two others.”
“Did he say anything about politics?”
“Not a word. We talked mostly about books.”
“Books! What does he know about books?”
“You must ask him.”
“Well, this is the most ridiculous situation we are all in. No one knows anything about the new President. You could take your oath that everybody is in the dark. Ratcliffe says he knows as little as the rest of us, but it can’t be true; he is too old a politician not to have wires in his hand; and only today one of the pages of the Senate told my colleague Cutter that a letter sent off by him yesterday was directed to Sam Grimes, of North Bend, who, as everyone knows, belongs to the President’s particular crowd.—Why, Mr. Schneidekoupon! How do you do? When did you come on?”
“Thank you; this morning,” replied Mr. Schneidekoupon, just entering the room. “So glad to see you again, Mrs. Lee. How do you and your sister like Washington? Do you know I have brought Julia on for a visit? I thought I should find her here.”
“She has just gone. She has been all the afternoon with Sybil, making calls. She says you want her here to lobby for you, Mr. Schneidekoupon. Is it true?”
“So I did,” replied he, with a laugh, “but she is precious little use. So I’ve come to draft you into the service.”
“Me!”
“Yes; you know we all expect Senator Ratcliffe to be Secretary of the Treasury, and it is very important for us to keep him straight on the currency and the tariff. So I have come on to establish more intimate relations with him, as they say in diplomacy. I want to get him to dine with me at Welckley’s, but as I know he keeps very shy of politics I thought my only chance was to make it a ladies’ dinner, so I brought on Julia. I shall try and get Mrs. Schuyler Clinton, and I depend upon you and your sister to help Julia out.”
“Me! at a lobby dinner! Is that proper?”
“Why not? You shall choose the guests.”
“I never heard of such a thing; but it would certainly be amusing. Sybil must not go, but I might.”
“Excuse me; Julia depends upon Miss Ross, and will not go to table without her.”
“Well,” assented Mrs. Lee, hesitatingly, “perhaps if you get Mrs. Clinton, and if your sister is there—And who else?”
“Choose your own company.”
“I know no one.”
“Oh yes; here is French, not quite sound on the tariff, but good for what we want just now. Then we can get Mr. Gore; he has his little hatchet to grind too, and will be glad to help grind ours. We only want two or three more, and I will have an extra man or so to fill up.”
“Do ask the Speaker. I want to know him.”
“I will, and Carrington, and my Pennsylvania Senator. That will do nobly. Remember, Welckley’s, Saturday at seven.”
Meanwhile Sybil had been at the piano, and when she had sung for a time, Orsini was induced to take her place, and show that it was possible to sing without injury to one’s beauty. Baron Jacobi came in and found fault with them both. Little Miss Dare—commonly known among her male friends as little Daredevil—who was always absorbed in some flirtation with a Secretary of Legation, came in, quite unaware that Popoff was present, and retired with him into a corner, while Orsini and Jacobi bullied poor Sybil, and fought with each other at the piano; everybody was talking with very little reference to any reply, when at last Mrs. Lee drove them all out of the room: “We are quiet people,” said she, “and we dine at half-past six.”
Senator Ratcliffe had not failed to make his Sunday evening call upon Mrs. Lee. Perhaps it was not strictly correct to say that they had talked books all the evening, but whatever the conversation was, it had only confirmed Mr. Ratcliffe’s admiration for Mrs. Lee, who, without intending to do so, had acted a more dangerous part than if she had been the most accomplished of coquettes. Nothing could be more fascinating to the weary politician in his solitude than the repose of Mrs. Lee’s parlour, and when Sybil sang for him one or two simple airs—she said they were foreign hymns, the Senator being, or being considered, orthodox—Mr. Ratcliffe’s heart yearned toward the charming girl quite with the sensations of a father, or even of an elder brother.
His brother senators very soon began to remark that the Prairie Giant had acquired a trick of looking up to the ladies’ gallery. One day Mr. Jonathan Andrews, the special correspondent of the New York Sidereal System, a very friendly organ, approached Senator Schuyler Clinton with a puzzled look on his face.
“Can you tell me,” said he, “what has happened to Silas P. Ratcliffe? Only a moment ago I was talking with him at his seat on a very important subject, about which I must send his opinions off to New York tonight, when, in the middle of a sentence, he stopped short, got up without looking at me, and left the Senate Chamber, and now I see him in the gallery talking with a lady whose face I don’t know.”
Senator Clinton slowly adjusted his gold eyeglasses and looked up at the place indicated: “Ah! Mrs. Lightfoot Lee! I think I will say a word to her myself;” and turning his back on the special correspondent, he skipped away with youthful agility after the Senator from Illinois.
“Devil!” muttered Mr. Andrews; “what has got into the old fools?” and in a still less audible murmur as he looked up to Mrs. Lee, then in close conversation with Ratcliffe: “Had I better make
