Hope Georgia was the first to regain her voice.

“Oh, Mrs. Spangler,” she ejaculated, “you are very kind to marry father, but—­”

“What’s that?” exclaimed the Senator, roused from his thoughts by his youngest daughter’s words and thrusting himself forward.

Mrs. Spangler laid her hand on his arm.

“Oh, Senator, I have just told the dear girls that you had asked me to marry you—­that we were soon to be married,” she said, archly, looking him straight in the eye.  She clasped her hands and murmured:  “I am so happy!”

The hero of Crawfordsville tried to speak, but he could not.  He stared at his hostess, who smiled the smile of the budding debutante.  His own open-mouthed astonishment was reflected in the faces of Carolina and Hope Georgia as they observed their father’s expression.  He forgot he was in Washington.  He did not know he was a Senator.  The fact that he had ever even thought of making a speech was furthest from his mind.

What did it all mean?  Had Mrs. Spangler gone suddenly insane?  His daughters—­what did they think?  These thoughts surged through his flustered brain.  Then it flashed over him—­she was joking in some new fashionable way.  He turned toward the fair widow to laugh, but her face was losing its smile.  A pained expression, a suggestion of intense suffering, appeared in her face.

“Why do you so hesitate, Senator Langdon?” she finally asked in low voice, just loud enough for the two girls to overhear.

The junior Senator from Mississippi looked at his hostess.  She had entertained him and had done much for his daughters in Washington.  She was alone in the world—­a widow.  He felt that he could not shame her before Carolina and Hope Georgia.  His Southern chivalry would not permit that.  Then, too, she was a most charming person, and the thought, “Why not—­why not take her at her word?” crept into his mind.

“Yes, father, why do you hesitate?” asked Carolina.

Senator Langdon mustered his voice into service at last.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, slowly, “that—­”

“That your daughters did not know,” interrupted Mrs. Spangler, “of our—­”

“The telephone—­upstairs—­is ringing, madam,” said a maid who had entered to Mrs. Spangler.

The adventuress could not leave the Senator and his daughters alone, though she knew it must be Peabody calling her.  At any moment he might remember his speech and leave.  Already late, he would still be later, though, because he would have no carriage—­hers would purposely be delayed.

“Tell the person speaking that you are empowered to bring me any message—­that I cannot leave the dining-hall,” she said to the maid.

To gain time and to hold the Senator’s attention, Mrs. Spangler asked, slowly: 

“Well, Senator, what was it that you were going to say when I interrupted you a few moments ago?”

Langdon had been racking his brain for some inspiration that would enable him to save the feelings of his hostess, and yet indicate his position clearly.  He would not commit himself in any way.  He would jump up and pronounce her an impostor first.