Strange to say, perhaps, considering that she was so frankly a woman of the world, her stub-bornest objection to Tommy was not an objection of expediency.  She had insensibly grown to take his success for granted, like the rest of the Washington world; he would be a governor, a senator, he might be—­anything!  And he was perfectly presentable, now; no, it would be on the whole an investment in the future that would pay well enough; his parents would be awkward, but they were old people, not likely to be too much en evidence.

Mrs. Carriswood, while not overjoyed, would not feel crushed by such a match, but she did view what she regarded as Tommy’s moral instability, with a dubious and fearful eye.  He was earnest enough for his new principles now; but what warrant was there of his sincerity?  Margaret and her mother were high-minded women.  It was the gallant knight of her party and her political faith that the girl admired, the valiant fight, not the triumph!  No mere soldier of fortune, no matter how successful or how brilliant, could win her; if Tommy were the mercenary, not the knight, no worldly glory could compensate his wife.

Wherefore, after a bad quarter of an hour reflecting on these things, Mrs. Carriswood went to the Capitol, resolved to take her goddaughter away.  She would not withdraw her acceptance of the Beatouns’ invitation, no; let the Iowa congressman have every opportunity to display his social shortcomings in contrast with the accomplished Russian, and Jack Turner, the most elegant man in the army; the next day would be time enough for a telegram and a sudden flitting.  Yet in the midst of her plans for Tommy’s discomfiture she was assailed by a queer regret and reluctance.  Tommy’s fascination had affected even a professional critic of life; he had been so amusing, so willing, so trusting, so useful, that her chill interest had warmed into liking.  She felt a moving of the heart as the handsome black head arose, and the first notes of that resonant, thrilling voice swelled above the din on the floor.

It was the day of his great speech, the speech that made him, it was said.

As Mrs. Carriswood sank back, turning a little in an instinctive effort to repulse her own sympathy, she was aware of the presence near her of an elderly man and woman.  The old man wore a shining silk hat and shining new black clothes.  His expansive shirt-bosom was very white, but not glossy, and rumpled in places; and his collar was of the spiked and antique pattern known as a “dickey.”  His wrinkled, red face was edged by a white fringe of whisker.  He wore large gold-bowed spectacles, and his jaws worked incessantly.