“D—­n business!  See here, Carmen, my darling, tell me”—­I regret to say he had by this time got hold of the back of Carmen’s chair—­“tell me, my own little girl,—­about—­about that Senator.  You remember what you said to him?”

“Oh, the old man?  Oh, that was business.  And you say of business, ‘d—­n.’”

“Carmen!”

“Don Royal!”

*****

Although Miss Carmen had recourse to her fan frequently during this interview, the air must have been chilly, for a moment later, on his way down stairs, poor Harlowe, a sufferer from bronchitis, was attacked with a violent fit of coughing, which troubled him all the way down.

“Well,” he said, as he entered the room, “I see you have found Mr. Thatcher, and shown those papers.  I trust you have, for you’ve certainly had time enough.  I am sent by mother to dismiss you all to bed.”

Carmen still in the arm chair, covered with her mantilla, did not speak.

“I suppose you are by this time lawyer enough to know,” continued Harlowe, “that Miss De Haro’s papers, though ingenious, are not legally available, unless—­”

“I chose to make her a witness.  Harlowe! you’re a good fellow!  I don’t mind saying to you that these are papers I prefer that my wife should not use.  We’ll leave it for the present—­Unfinished Business.”

They did.  But one evening our hero brought Mrs. Royal Thatcher a paper containing a touching and beautiful tribute to the dead Senator.

“There, Carmen, love, read that.  Don’t you feel a little ashamed of your—­your—­your lobbying—­”

“No,” said Carmen promptly.  “It was business,—­and if all lobbying business was as honest,—­well?—­”