The reception at the White House was being given in honour of the delegates to a Peace Congress.  The rooms were full without being inconveniently crowded and the charming house opened its friendly doors to a society more congruous and organic, richer also in the nobler kind of variety than America, perhaps, can offer to her guests elsewhere.  What the opera and international finance are to New York, politics and administration are, as we all know, to Washington.  And the visitor from Europe, conversationally starved for want of what seem to him the only topics worth discussing, finds himself within hearing once more of ministers, cabinets, embassies, and parliamentary gossip.  Even General Hobson had come to admit that ­especially for the middle-aged ­Washington parties were extremely agreeable.  The young and foolish might sigh for the flesh-pots of New York; those on whom “the black ox had trodden,” who were at all aware what a vast tormenting, multitudinous, and headstrong world man has been given to inhabit; those who were engaged in governing any part of that world, or meant some day to be thus engaged; for them Washington was indispensable, and New York a mere entertainment.

Moreover Washington, at this time of the world’s history, was the scene of one of those episodes ­those brisker moments in the human comedy ­which every now and then revive among us an almost forgotten belief in personality, an almost forgotten respect for the mysteries behind it.  The guests streaming through the White House defiled past a man who, in a level and docketed world, appeared to his generation as the reincarnation of forces primitive, over-mastering, and heroic.  An honest Odysseus! ­toil-worn and storm-beaten, yet still with the spirit and strength, the many devices, of a boy; capable like his prototype in one short day of crushing his enemies, upholding his friends, purifying his house; and then, with the heat of righteous battle still upon him, with its gore, so to speak, still upon his hands, of turning his mind, without a pause and without hypocrisy, to things intimate and soft and pure ­the domestic sweetness of Penelope, the young promise of Telemachus.  The President stood, a rugged figure, amid the cosmopolitan crowd, breasting the modern world, like some ocean headland, yet not truly of it, one of the great fighters and workers of mankind, with a laugh that pealed above the noise, blue eyes that seemed to pursue some converse of their own, and a hand that grasped and cheered, where other hands withdrew and repelled.  This one man’s will had now, for some years, made the pivot on which vast issues turned ­issues of peace and war, of policy embracing the civilized world; and, here, one saw him in drawing-rooms, discussing Alaric’s campaigns with an Oxford professor, or chatting with a young mother about her children.

Beside him, the human waves, as they met and parted, disclosed a woman’s face, modelled by nature in one of her lightest and deftest moods, a trifle detached, humorous also, as though the world’s strange sights stirred a gentle and kindly mirth behind its sweet composure.  The dignity of the President’s wife was complete, yet it had not extinguished the personality it clothed; and where royalty, as the European knows it, would have donned its mask and stood on its defence, Republican royalty dared to be its amused, confiding, natural self.

All around ­the political, diplomatic world of Washington.  General Hobson, as he passed through it, greeted by what was now a large acquaintance, found himself driven once more to the inward confession ­the grudging confession ­as though Providence had not played him fair in extorting it ­that American politicians were of a vastly finer stamp than he had expected to find them.  The American press was all ­he vowed ­that fancy had painted it, and more.  But, as he looked about him at the members of the President’s administration ­at this tall, black-haired man, for instance, with the mild and meditative eye, the equal, social or intellectual, of any Foreign Minister that Europe might pit against him, or any diplomat that might be sent to handle him; or this younger man, sparely built, with the sane, handsome face ­son of a famous father, modest, amiable, efficient; or this other, of huge bulk and height, the sport of caricature, the hope of a party, smiling already a presidential smile as he passed, observed and beset, through the crowded rooms; or these naval or military men, with their hard serviceable looks, and the curt good manners of their kind: ­the General saw as clearly as anybody else, that America need make no excuses whatever for her best men, that she has evolved the leaders she wants, and Europe has nothing to teach them.

He could only console himself by the remembrance of a speech, made by a well-known man, at a military function which the General had attended as a guest of honour the day before.  There at last was the real thing!  The real, Yankee, spread-eagle thing!  The General positively hugged the thought of it.

“The American soldier,” said the speaker, standing among the ambassadors, the naval and military attaches, of all the European nations, “is the superior of all other soldiers in three respects ­bravery, discipline, intelligence.”

Bravery, discipline, intelligence! Just those ­the merest trifle!  The General had found himself chuckling over it in the visions of the night.

Tired at last of these various impressions, acting on a mind not quite alert enough to deal with them, the General went in search of his nephew.  Roger had been absent all day, and the General had left the hotel before his return.  But the uncle was sure that he would sooner or later put in an appearance.

It was of course entirely on Roger’s account that this unwilling guest of America was her guest still.  For three weeks now had the General been watching the affair between Roger and Daphne Floyd.  It had gone with such a rush at first, such a swing and fervour, that the General had felt that any day might bring the denouement.  It was really impossible to desert the lad at such a crisis, especially as Laura was so excitable and anxious, and so sure to make her brother pay for it if he failed to support her views and ambitions at the right moment.  The General moreover felt the absolute necessity of getting to know something more about Miss Floyd, her character, the details of her fortune and antecedents, so that when the great moment came he might be prepared.

But the astonishing thing was that of late the whole affair seemed to have come to some stupid hitch!  Roger had been behaving like a very cool hand ­too cool by half in the General’s opinion.  What the deuce did he mean by hanging about these Boston ladies, if his affections were really fixed on Miss Daphne? ­or his ambitions, which to the uncle seemed nearer the truth.

“Well, where is the nephew?” said Cecilia Boyson’s voice in his ear.

The General turned.  He saw a sharp, though still young face, a thin and willowy figure, attired in white silk, a pince-nez on the high-pitched nose, and a cool smile.  Unconsciously his back stiffened.  Miss Boyson invariably roused in him a certain masculine antagonism.

“I should be glad if you would tell me,” he said, with some formality.  “There are two or three people here to whom he should be introduced.”

“Has he been picnicking with the Maddisons?” The voice was shrill, perhaps malicious.

“I believe they took him to Arlington, and somewhere else afterwards.”

“Ah,” said Cecilia, “there they are.”

The General looked towards the door and saw his nephew enter, behind a mother and daughter whom, as it seemed to him, their acquaintances in the crowd around them greeted with a peculiar cordiality; the mother, still young, with a stag-like carriage of the head, a long throat, swathed in white tulle, and grizzled hair, on which shone a spray of diamonds; the daughter, equally tall and straight, repeating her mother’s beauty with a bloom and radiance of her own.  Innocent and happy, with dark eyes and a soft mouth, Miss Maddison dropped a little curtsey to the presidential pair, and the room turned to look at her as she did so.

“A very sweet-looking girl,” said the General warmly.  “Her father is, I think, a professor.”

“He was.  He is now just a writer of books.  But Elsie was brought up in Cambridge.  How did Mr. Roger know them?”

“His Eton tutor told him to go and see them.”

“I thought Miss Floyd expected him to-day?” said Miss Boyson carelessly, adjusting her eyeglass.

“It was a mistake, a misunderstanding,” replied the General hurriedly.  “Miss Floyd’s party is put off till next week.”

“Daphne is just coming in,” said Miss Boyson.

The General turned again.  The watchful Cecilia was certain that he was not in love with Daphne.  But the nephew ­the inordinately handsome, and by now much-courted young man ­what was the real truth about him?

Cecilia recognized ­with Mrs. Verrier ­that merely to put the question involved a certain tribute to young Barnes.  He had at any rate done his fortune-hunting, if fortune-hunting it were, with decorum.

“Miss Floyd is looking well to-night,” remarked the General.

Cecilia did not reply.  She and a great part of the room were engaged in watching Roger Barnes and Miss Maddison walking together through a space which seemed to have been cleared on purpose for them, but was really the result of a move towards the supper-room.

“Was there ever such a pair?” said an enthusiastic voice behind the General.  “Athene and Apollo take the floor!” A gray-haired journalist with a small, bewrinkled face, buried in whiskers, and beard, laid a hand on the General’s arm as he spoke.

The General smiled vaguely.  “Do you know Mrs. and Miss Maddison?”

“Rather!” said the little man.  “Miss Elsie’s a wonder!  As pretty and soft as they make them, and a Greek scholar besides ­took all sorts of honours at Radcliffe last year.  I’ve known her from her cradle.”

“What a number of your girls go to college!” said the General, but ungraciously, in the tones of one who no sooner saw an American custom emerging than his instinct was to hit it.

“Yes; it’s a feature of our modern life ­the life of our women.  But not the most significant one, by a long way.”

The General could not help a look of inquiry.

The journalist’s face changed from gay to grave.  “The most significant thing in American life just now ­”

“I know!” interrupted the General.  “Your divorce laws!”

The journalist shook his head.  “It goes deeper than that.  What we’re looking on at is a complete transformation of the idea of marriage ­”

A movement in the crowd bore the speaker away.  The General was left watching the beautiful pair in the distance.  They were apparently quite unconscious that they roused any special attention.  Laughing and chatting like two children, they passed into the supper-room and disappeared.

Ten minutes later, in the supper-room, Barnes deserted the two ladies with whom he had entered, and went in pursuit of a girl in white, whose necklace of star sapphires, set in a Spanish setting of the seventeenth century, had at once caught the eye of the judicious.  Roger, however, knew nothing of jewels, and was only conscious as he approached Miss Floyd, first of the mingling in his own mind of something like embarrassment with something like defiance, and then, of the glitter in the girl’s dark eyes.

“I hope you had an interesting debate,” he said.  “Mrs. Phillips tells me you went to the Senate.”

Daphne looked him up and down.  “Did I?” she said slowly.  “I’ve forgotten.  Will you move, please?  There’s someone bringing me an ice.”  And turning her back on Roger, she smiled and beckoned to the Under-Secretary, who with a triumphant face was making his way to her through the crowd.

Roger coloured hotly.  “May I bring Mrs. Maddison?” he said, passing her; “she would like to talk to you about a party for next week ­”

“Thank you.  I am just going home.”  And with an energetic movement she freed herself from him, and was soon in the gayest of talk with the Under-Secretary.

The reception broke up some time after midnight, and on the way home General Hobson attempted a raid upon his nephew’s intentions.

“I don’t wish to seem an intrusive person, my dear Roger, but may I ask how much longer you mean to stay in Washington?”

The tone was short and the look which accompanied the words not without sarcasm.  Roger, who had been walking beside his companion, still deeply flushed, in complete silence, gave an awkward laugh.

“And as for you, Uncle Archie, I thought you meant to sail a fortnight ago.  If you’ve been staying on like this on my account ­”

“Don’t make a fool either of me or yourself, Roger!” said the General hastily, roused at last to speech by the annoyance of the situation.  “Of course it was on your account that I have stayed on.  But what on earth it all means, and where your affairs are ­I’m hanged if I have the glimmer of an idea!”

Roger’s smile was perfectly good-humoured.

“I haven’t much myself,” he said quietly.

“Do you ­or do you not ­mean to propose to Miss Floyd?” cried the General, pausing in the centre of Lafayette Square, now all but deserted, and apostrophizing with his umbrella ­for the night was soft and rainy ­the presidential statue above his head.

“Have I given you reason to suppose that I was going to do so?” said Roger slowly.

“Given me? ­given everybody reason? ­of course you have! ­a dozen times over.  I don’t like interfering with your affairs, Roger ­with any young man’s affairs ­but you must know that you have set Washington talking, and it’s not fair to a girl ­by George it isn’t! ­when she has given you encouragement and you have made her conspicuous, to begin the same story, in the same place, immediately, with someone else!  As you say, I ought to have taken myself off long ago.”

“I didn’t say anything of the kind,” said Roger hotly; “you shouldn’t put words into my mouth, Uncle Archie.  And I really don’t see why you attack me like this.  My tutor particularly asked me, if I came across them, to be civil to Mrs. Maddison and her daughter, and I have done nothing but pay them the most ordinary attentions.”

“When a man is in love he pays no ordinary attentions.  He has eyes for no one but the lady.”  The General’s umbrella, as it descended from the face of Andrew Jackson and rattled on the flagged path, supplied each word with emphasis.  “However, it is no good talking, and I don’t exactly know why I should put my old oar in.  But the fact is I feel a certain responsibility.  People here have been uncommonly civil.  Well, well! ­I’ve wired to-day to ask if there is a berth left in the Venetia for Saturday.  And you, I suppose” ­the inquiry was somewhat peremptory ­“will be going back to New York?”

“I have no intention of leaving Washington just yet,” said Roger, with decision.

“And may I ask what you intend to do here?”

Roger laughed.  “I really think that’s my business.  However, you’ve been an awful brick, Uncle Archie, to stay on like this.  I assure you, if I don’t say much, I think it.”

By this time they had reached the hotel, the steps and hall of which were full of people.

“That’s how you put me off.”  The General’s tone was resentful.  “And you won’t give me any idea of the line I am to take with your mother?”

The young man smiled again and waved an evasive hand.

“If you’ll only be patient a little longer, Uncle Archie ­”

At this point an acquaintance of the General’s who was smoking in the hall came forward to greet him, and Roger made his escape.

“Well, what the deuce do I mean to do?” Barnes asked himself the question deliberately.  He was hanging out of the window, in his bedroom, smoking and pondering.

It was a mild and rainy night.  Washington was full of the earth and leaf odours of the spring, which rose in gusts from its trees and gardens; and rugged, swiftly moving clouds disclosed every now and then what looked like hurrying stars.

The young man was excited and on edge.  Daphne Floyd ­and the thought of Daphne Floyd ­had set his pulses hammering; they challenged in him the aggressive, self-assertive, masculine force.  The history of the preceding three weeks was far from simple.  He had first paid a determined court to her, conducting it in an orthodox, English, conspicuous way.  His mother, and her necessities ­his own also ­imposed it on him; and he flung himself into it, setting his teeth.  Then, to his astonishment, one may almost say to his disconcerting, he found the prey all at once, and, as it were, without a struggle, fluttering to his lure, and practically within his grasp.  There was an evening when Daphne’s sudden softness, the look in her eyes, the inflection in her voice had fairly thrown him off his balance.  For the first time he had shown a lack of self-command and self-possession.  Whereupon, in a flash, a new and strange Daphne had developed ­imperious, difficult, incalculable.  The more he gave, the more she claimed.  Nor was it mere girlish caprice.  The young Englishman, invited to a game that he had never yet played, felt in it something sinister and bewildering.  Gropingly, he divined in front of him a future of tyranny on her side, of expected submission on his.  The Northern character in him, with its reserve, its phlegm, its general sanity, began to shrink from the Southern elements in her.  He became aware of the depths in her nature, of things volcanic and primitive, and the English stuff in him recoiled.

So he was to be bitted and bridled, it seemed, in the future.  Daphne Floyd would have bought him with her dollars, and he would have to pay the price.

Something natural and wild in him said No!  If he married this girl he would be master, in spite of her money.  He realized vaguely, at any rate, the strength of her will, and the way in which it had been tempered and steeled by circumstance.  But the perception only roused in himself some slumbering tenacities and véhémences of which he had been scarcely aware.  So that, almost immediately ­since there was no glamour of passion on his side ­he began to resent her small tyrannies, to draw in, and draw back.  A few quarrels ­not ordinary lovers’ quarrels, but representing a true grapple of personalities ­sprang up behind a screen of trifles.  Daphne was once more rude and provoking, Roger cool and apparently indifferent.  This was the stage when Mrs. Verrier had become an admiring observer of what she supposed to be his “tactics.”  But she knew nothing of the curious little crisis which had preceded them.

Then the Maddisons, mother and daughter, “my tutor’s friends,” had appeared upon the scene ­charming people!  Of course civilities were due to them, and had to be paid them.  Next to his mother ­and to the girl of the orchard ­the affections of this youth, who was morally backward and immature, but neither callous nor fundamentally selfish, had been chiefly given to a certain Eton master, of a type happily not uncommon in English public schools.  Herbert French had been Roger’s earliest and best friend.  What Roger had owed him at school, only he knew.  Since school-days they had been constant correspondents, and French’s influence on his pupil’s early manhood had done much, for all Roger’s laziness and self-indulgence, to keep him from serious lapses.

Neglect any friends of his ­and such jolly friends?  Rather not!  But as soon as Daphne had seen Elsie Maddison, and he had begged an afternoon to go on an expedition with them, Daphne had become intolerable.  She had shown her English friend and his acquaintances a manner so insulting and provocative, that the young man’s blood had boiled.

If he were in love with her ­well and good!  She might no doubt have tamed him by these stripes.  But she was no goddess to him; no golden cloud enveloped her; he saw her under a common daylight.  At the same time she attracted him; he was vain of what had seemed his conquest, and uneasily exultant in the thought of her immense fortune.  “I’ll make her an excellent husband if she marries me,” he said to himself stubbornly; “I can, and I will.”

But meanwhile how was this first stage to end?  At the White House that night Daphne had treated him with contumely, and before spectators.  He must either go or bring her to the point.

He withdrew suddenly from the window, flinging out the end of his cigarette.  “I’ll propose to her to-morrow ­and she may either take me or leave me!”

He paced up and down his room, conscious of relief and fresh energy.  As he did so his eyes were drawn to a letter from Herbert French lying on the table.  He took it up and read it again ­smiling over it broadly, in a boyish and kindly amusement.  “By Jove! he’s happy.”

Then as he put it down his face darkened.  There was something in the letter, in its manliness and humour, its unconscious revelation of ideals wholly independent of dollars, that made Roger for the moment loathe his own position.  But he pulled himself together.

“I shall make her a good husband,” he repeated, frowning.  “She’ll have nothing to complain of.”

On the following day a picnic among the woods of the Upper Potomac brought together most of the personages in this history.  The day was beautiful, the woods fragrant with spring leaf and blossom, and the stream, swollen with rain, ran seaward in a turbid, rejoicing strength.

The General, having secured his passage home, was in good spirits as far as his own affairs were concerned, though still irritable on the score of his nephew’s.  Since the abortive attempt on his confidence of the night before, Roger had avoided all private conversation with his uncle; and for once the old had to learn patience from the young.

The party was given by the wife of one of the staff of the French Embassy ­a young Frenchwoman, as gay and frank as her babies, and possessed, none the less, of all the social arts of her nation.  She had taken a shrewd interest in the matter of Daphne Floyd and the Englishman.  Daphne, according to her, should be promptly married and her millions taken care of, and the handsome, broad-shouldered fellow impressed the little Frenchwoman’s imagination as a proper and capable watchdog.  She had indeed become aware that something was wrong, but her acuteness entirely refused to believe that it had any vital connection with the advent of pretty Elsie Maddison.  Meanwhile, to please Daphne, whom she liked, while conscious of a strong and frequent desire to smite her, Madame de Fronsac had invited Mrs. Verrier, treating her with a cold and punctilious courtesy that, as applied to any other guest, would have seemed an affront.

In vain, however, did the hostess, in vain did other kindly bystanders, endeavour to play the game of Daphne Floyd.  In the first place Daphne herself, though piped unto, refused to dance.  She avoided the society of Roger Barnes in a pointed and public way, bright colour on her cheeks and a wild light in her eyes; the Under-Secretary escorted her and carried her wrap.  Washington did not know what to think.  For owing to this conduct of Daphne’s, the charming Boston girl, the other ingenue of the party, fell constantly to the care of young Barnes; and to see them stepping along the green ways together, matched almost in height, and clearly of the same English ancestry and race, pleased while it puzzled the spectators.

The party lunched in a little inn beside the river, and then scattered again along woodland paths.  Daphne and the Under-Secretary wandered on ahead and were some distance from the rest of the party when that gentleman suddenly looked at his watch in dismay.  An appointment had to be kept with the President at a certain hour, and the Under-Secretary’s wits had been wandering.  There was nothing for it but to take a short cut through the woods to a local station and make at once for Washington.

Daphne quickened his uneasiness and hastened his departure.  She assured him that the others were close behind, and that nothing could suit her better than to rest on a mossy stone that happily presented itself till they arrived.

The Under-Secretary, transformed into the anxious and ambitious politician, abruptly left her.

Daphne, as soon as he was gone, allowed herself the natural attitude that fitted her thoughts.  She was furiously in love and torn with jealousy; and that love and jealousy could smart so, and cling so, was a strange revelation to one accustomed to make a world entirely to her liking.  Her dark eyes were hollow, her small mouth had lost its colour, and she showed that touch of something wasting and withering that Theocritan shepherds knew in old Sicilian days.  It was as though she had defied a god ­and the god had avenged himself.

Suddenly he appeared ­the teasing divinity ­in human shape.  There was a rustling among the brushwood fringing the river.  Roger Barnes emerged and made his way up towards her.

“I’ve been stalking you all this time,” he said, breathless, as he reached her, “and now at last ­I’ve caught you!”

Daphne rose furiously.  “What right have you to stalk me, as you call it ­to follow me ­to speak to me even?  I wish to avoid you ­and I have shown it!”

Roger looked at her.  He had thrown down his hat, and she saw him against the background of sunny wood, as the magnificent embodiment of its youth and force.  “And why have you shown it?” There was a warning tremor of excitement in his voice.  “What have I done?  I haven’t deserved it!  You treat me like ­like a friend! ­and then you drop me like a hot coal.  You’ve been awfully unkind to me!”

“I won’t discuss it with you,” she cried passionately.  “You are in my way, Mr. Barnes.  Let me go back to the others!” And stretching out a small hand, she tried to put him aside.

Roger hesitated, but only for a moment.  He caught the hand, he gathered its owner into a pair of strong arms, and bending over her, he kissed her.  Daphne, suffocated with anger and emotion, broke from him ­tottering.  Then sinking on the ground beneath a tree, she burst into sobbing.  Roger, scarlet, with sparkling eyes, dropped on one knee beside her.

“Daphne, I’m a ruffian! forgive me! you must, Daphne!  Look here, I want you to marry me.  I’ve nothing to offer you, of course; I’m a poor man, and you’ve all this horrible money!  But I ­I love you! ­and I’ll make you a good husband, Daphne, that I’ll swear.  If you’ll take me, you shall never be sorry for it.”

He looked at her again, sorely embarrassed, hating himself, yet inwardly sure of her.  Her small frame shook with weeping.  And presently she turned from him and said in a fierce voice: 

“Go and tell all that to Elsie Maddison!”

Infinitely relieved, Roger gave a quick, excited laugh.

“She’d soon send me about my business!  I should be a day too late for the fair, in that quarter.  What do you think she and I have been talking about all this time, Daphne?”

“I don’t care,” said Daphne hastily, with face still averted.

“I’m going to tell you, all the same,” cried Roger triumphantly, and diving into his coat pocket he produced “my tutor’s letter.”  Daphne sat immovable, and he had to read it aloud himself.  It contained the rapturous account of Herbert French’s engagement to Miss Maddison, a happy event which had taken place in England during the Eton holidays, about a month before this date.

“There!” cried the young man as he finished it.  “And she’s talked about nothing all the time, nothing at all ­but old Herbert ­and how good he is ­and how good-looking, and the Lord knows what!  I got precious sick of it, though I think he’s a trump, too.  Oh, Daphne! ­you were a little fool!”

“All the same, you have behaved abominably!” Daphne said, still choking.

“No, I haven’t,” was Roger’s firm reply.  “It was you who were so cross.  I couldn’t tell you anything.  I say! you do know how to stick pins into people!”

But he took up her hand and kissed it as he spoke.

Daphne allowed it.  Her breast heaved as the storm departed.  And she looked so charming, so soft, so desirable, as she sat there in her white dress, with her great tear-washed eyes and fluttering breath, that the youth was really touched and carried off his feet; and the rest of his task was quite easy.  All the familiar things that had to be said were said, and with all the proper emphasis and spirit.  He played his part, the spring woods played theirs, and Daphne, worn out by emotion and conquered by passion, gradually betrayed herself wholly.  And so much at least may be said to the man’s credit that there were certainly moments in the half-hour between them when, amid the rush of talk, laughter, and caresses, that conscience which he owed so greatly to the exertions of “my tutor” pricked him not a little.

After losing themselves deliberately in the woods, they strolled back to join the rest of the party.  The sounds of conversation were already audible through the trees in front of them, when they saw Mrs. Verrier coming towards them.  She was walking alone and did not perceive them.  Her eyes were raised and fixed, as though on some sight in front of them.  The bitterness, the anguish, one might almost call it, of her expression, the horror in the eyes, as of one ghost-led, ghost-driven, drew an exclamation from Roger.

“There’s Mrs. Verrier!  Why, how ill she looks!”

Daphne paused, gazed, and shrank.  She drew him aside through the trees.

“Let’s go another way.  Madeleine’s often strange.”  And with a superstitious pang she wished that Madeleine Verrier’s face had not been the first to meet her in this hour of her betrothal.