It was Harriet Hamlin’s reception day. There are certain times appointed in Washington when the members of the President’s Cabinet hold receptions.

The “Automobile Girls” had come to Washington in time for one of these special entertainments. For, as Harriet explained, they could see everyone worth seeing at once. Not only would the diplomats, the senators and congressmen call with their wives, but the Army and Navy officers, all official Washington would appear to pay their respects to Mr. William Hamlin and his lovely daughter.

“Then there will be a crowd of unimportant people besides,” Harriet had continued. “People who are never asked to any small parties come to this reception just because they can get in. So you girls will have to entertain yourselves this morning. I have a thousand things to do. Why not take the girls to look at the White House, Ruth? That is the first thing to do in Washington. I am sorry I can’t go with you. But you just walk straight down Connecticut Avenue and you can’t miss it.”

It was a perfect day. Although it was early in December, the atmosphere was like Indian summer. Washington shone sparkling white through a dim veil of haze. The “Automobile Girls” walked briskly along toward the White House, chatting every step of the way.

“Where are the poplar trees planted along this avenue by Thomas Jefferson, Ruth?” Grace Carter demanded. “I read somewhere that Jefferson meant to make this avenue look like the famous street called ’Unter den Linden’ in Berlin.”

“He did, child, but most of the poplar trees died,” Ruth rejoined, “and some one else planted these oaks and elms. Why are you so silent, Barbara? Are you tired?”

“I think Washington is the most beautiful city in the whole world,” Bab answered with sudden enthusiasm.

“Wait until you have seen it,” Ruth teased. “Uncle William wants to take us through the Capitol. But I suppose there is no harm in our looking at the outside of the White House. Later on, when we go to one of the President’s receptions, we can see the inside of it.”

“Shall we ever see the President?” Mollie asked breathlessly. “Won’t it be wonderful? I never dreamed that even Mr. Hamlin could take us to the President’s home.”

“Here we are at the White House,” said Ruth.

The “Automobile Girls” stood silent for a moment, looking in through the autumn foliage at the simple colonial mansion, which is the historic “White House.”

“I am glad our White House looks like that,” Bab said, after half a moment’s pause. “I was so afraid it would be pretentious. But it is just big and simple and dignified as our President’s home ought to be. It makes me feel so glad to be an American,” Barbara ended with a flush. She was afraid the other girls were laughing at her.

“I think so too, Bab,” Ruth agreed. “I don’t see why girls cannot be as patriotic as boys. We may be able to serve our country in some way, some day. I hope we shall have the chance.”

The “Automobile Girls” had entered the White House grounds and were strolling along through the park.

Bab and Ruth were talking of the beauties of Washington. But no such thoughts were engrossing pretty Mollie’s attention. Mollie’s mind was dwelling on the society pleasures the “Automobile Girls” expected to enjoy at the Capital City. Grace Carter was listening to Barbara’s and Ruth’s animated conversation.

From the very first days at Newport, Mollie Thurston had cared more for society than had her sister and two friends. Her dainty beauty and pretty manners made her a favorite wherever she went. Mollie’s friends had spoiled her, and since her arrival in Washington the old story had repeated itself. Harriet Hamlin had already taken Mollie under her special protection. And Mollie was wildly excited with the thought of the social experiences ahead of her.

The four girls spent some time strolling about the White House grounds. Then Ruth proposed that they take a car and visit the Congressional Library.

“I think it is the most beautiful building in Washington, and, in fact, one of the finest in the world,” she said enthusiastically, and later when the “Automobile Girls” were fairly inside the famous library, they fully agreed with her. It was particularly hard to tear Barbara away from what seemed to her the most fascinating place she was ever in, and she announced her intention of visiting it again at the first opportunity.

The sightseers arrived home in time for luncheon and at four o’clock that afternoon they stood in a row, beside Harriet Hamlin and her father, helping to receive the guests who crowded in to the reception. Some of the women wore beautiful gowns, others looked as though they had come from small towns where the residents knew nothing of fashionable society.

Mollie and Bab wore the white chiffon frocks Mr. Prescott had presented them with in Chicago. But Grace and Ruth wore gowns that had been ordered for this particular occasion. Bab thought their white frocks, which looked as though they were new, as pretty as any of the gowns worn there. But little Mollie was not satisfied. She hated old clothes, no matter how well they looked. And Harriet Hamlin was rarely beautiful in an imported gown of pale, yellow crepe.

After receiving for an hour, Bab slipped quietly into a chair near a window. She wished to examine the guests at her leisure. Mollie and Ruth were deep in conversation with Mrs. Post and Hugh. Grace was talking to Dorothy and Gwendolin Morton.

Barbara’s eyes wandered eagerly over the throng of people. Suddenly some one touched her on the shoulder.

“You do not remember me, do you?”

Bab turned and saw a young woman.

“I am Marjorie Moore,” said the newcomer. “I am the girl who came to ask you for your pictures. Perhaps you think it is strange for me to come to Harriet Hamlin’s reception when she was so rude to me last night. But I am not a guest. Besides, newspaper people are not expected to have any feelings. My newspaper sent me to find out what people were here this afternoon. So here I am! I know everybody in Washington. Would you like me to point out some of the celebrities to you? See that stunning woman just coming in at the door? She has the reputation of being the most popular woman in Washington. But nobody knows just where she comes from, or who she is, or how she gets her money. But I must not talk Washington gossip. You’ll meet her soon yourself.”

“How do you do, Miss Moore?” broke in a charming contralto voice. “You are the very person I wish to see. I can give you some news for your paper. It is not very important, but I thought you might like to have it.”

“You are awfully good, Mrs. Wilson,” Marjorie Moore replied gratefully. “I have just been talking to Miss Thurston about you. May I introduce her? She has just arrived in Washington, and I told her, only half a second ago, that you were the nicest woman in this town.”

Mrs. Wilson laughed quietly. “I know Miss Thurston’s sister and her friend, Miss Carter. Mr. Hamlin let me help chaperon them at a reception yesterday afternoon. But Miss Moore has been flattering me dreadfully. I am a very unimportant person, though I happen to have the good fortune to be a friend of Mr. Hamlin’s and Harriet’s. I am keeping house in Washington at present. Some day you must come to see me.”

Bab thanked her new acquaintance. She thought she had never seen a more unusual looking woman. It was impossible to guess her age. Mrs. Wilson’s hair was snow-white, but her face was as young as a girl’s and her eyes were fascinatingly dark under her narrow penciled brows. She was gowned in a pale blue broadcloth dress, and wore on her head a large black hat trimmed with a magnificent black plume.

“The top of the afternoon to you!” declared a new arrival in Bab’s sheltered corner. “How is a man to find you if you will hide behind curtains?” This time Bab recognized Peter Dillon, her acquaintance of the afternoon before.

Mrs. Wilson, whose manner suggested a charming frankness and innocence, took Peter by the arm. “Which of the three Graces do you mean to devote yourself to this afternoon, Peter? You shall not flatter us all at once.”

“I flatter?” protested Peter, in aggrieved tones. “Why truthfulness is my strong point.”

Marjorie Moore gave a jarring laugh. “Is it, Mr. Dillon?” she returned, not too politely. “Please count me out of Mr. Dillon’s flatteries. He does not include a woman who works in them.” Marjorie Moore hurried away.

“Whew-w!” ejaculated Peter. “Miss Moore does not love me, does she? I came up only to say a few words. Miss Hamlin is keeping me busy this afternoon. Come and have some coffee, Miss Thurston. I am sure you look tired.”

“I would rather not,” Barbara protested. “I am going to run away upstairs for a minute, if you will excuse me.”

Before Barbara could make her escape from the drawing-room she saw that Peter Dillon and Mrs. Wilson had both lost their frivolous manner and were deep in earnest conversation.