“Dear Miss Allen:  After deliberating on the matter a somewhat shorter time, I’ll admit, than you suggested, but still having deliberated on it, I have decided that friendship is an art that needs attention and study.  Will you not dine with me to-morrow, or rather, this evening, at the Ashton, at eight o’clock?  Jonas, who will bring you this, can bring your answer.  Sincerely yours, Enoch Huntingdon.”

He gave the note to Jonas the next morning.  Jonas’ black eyes, when he saw the superscription, nearly started from their sockets:  for during all the years of his service with Enoch, he never had carried a note to a woman.  It was mid-morning when he tip-toed to the Secretary’s desk and laid a letter on it.  Enoch was in conference at the time with Bill Timmins, perhaps the foremost newspaper correspondent in America.  He excused himself for a moment and opened the envelope.

“Dear Mr. Secretary:  Thank you, yes.  Sincerely, Diana Allen.”

He slipped the letter into his breast pocket and went on with the interview, his face as somber as ever.  But all that day it seemed to the watchful Jonas that the Secretary seemed less tired than he had been for weeks.

There was a little balcony at the Ashton, just big enough for a table for two, and shielded from the view of the main dining-room by palms.  It was set well out from the second floor, overlooking a quiet park.  Enoch was in the habit of dining here with various men with whom he wished semi-privacy yet whom he did not care to entertain at his own home.

Diana was more than charmed by the arrangement.  The corners of her mouth deepened as if she were also amused, but Enoch, engrossed in seating her where the light exactly suited him, did not note the curving lips.  He did not know much about women’s dress, but he liked Diana’s soft white gown, and the curious turquoise necklace she wore interested him.  He asked her about it.

“Na-che gave it to me,” she said.  “It was her mother’s.  It has no special significance beyond the fact that the workmanship is very fine and that the tracery on the silver means joy.”

“Joy?  What sort of joy?” asked Enoch.

“Is there more than one sort?” countered Diana, in the bantering voice that Enoch always fancied was half tender.

“Oh, yes!” replied the Secretary.  “There’s joy in work, play, friends.  There are as many kinds of joy as there are kinds of sorrow.  Only sorrow is so much more persistent than joy!  A sorrow can stay by one forever.  But joys pass.  They are always short lived.”

“Joy in work does not pass, Mr. Secretary,” said Diana.

Enoch laid down his spoon.  “Please, Miss Allen, don’t Mr. Secretary me any more.”

Diana merely smiled.  “Granted that one has a real friend, I believe joy in friendship is permanent,” she went on.

“I hope you’re right,” said Enoch quietly.  “We’ll see, you and I.”