A rather superior specimen of the professional politician, but distinctly of that hypocritical, slippery class.  And Margaret’s conviction was strengthened later in the day when she came upon him at tea at Mrs. Houghton’s.  He was holding forth noisily against “society,” was denouncing it as a debaucher of manhood and womanhood, a waster of precious time, and on and on in that trite and tedious strain.  Margaret’s lip curled as she listened.  What did this fakir know about manhood and womanhood?  And could there be any more pitiful, more paltry wasting of time than in studying out and performing such insincerities as his life was made up of?  True, Mrs. Houghton, of those funny, fashionable New Yorkers who act as if they had only just arrived at the estate of servants and carriages, and are always trying to impress even passing strangers with their money and their grandeur—­true, Mrs. Houghton was most provocative to anger or amused disdain at the fashionable life.  But not even Mrs. Houghton seemed to Margaret so cheap and pitiful as this badly-dressed, mussy politician, as much an actor as Mrs. Houghton and as poor at the trade, but choosing low comedy for his unworthy attempts where Mrs. Houghton was at least trying to be something refined.

With that instinct for hostility which is part of the equipment of every sensitively-nerved man of action, Craig soon turned toward her, addressed himself to her; and the others, glad to be free, fell away.  Margaret was looking her best.  White was extremely becoming to her; pink—­pale pink—­being next in order.  Her dress was of white, with facings of delicate pale pink, and the white plumes in her hat were based in pale pink, which also lined the inside of the brim.  She watched him, and, now that it was once more his personality pitted directly and wholly against hers, she, in spite of herself, began to yield to him again her respect—­the respect every intelligent person must feel for an individuality that is erect and strong.  But as she was watching, her expression was that of simply listening, without comment or intention to reply—­an expression of which she was perfect mistress.  Her hazel eyes, set in dark lashes, her sensuous mouth, her pallid skin, smooth and healthy, seemed the climax of allurement to which all the lines of her delightful figure pointed.  To another woman it would have been obvious that she was amusing herself by trying to draw him under the spell of physical attraction; a man would have thought her a mere passive listener, perhaps one concealing boredom, would have thought her movements to bring now this charm and now that to his attention were simply movements of restlessness, indications of an impatience difficult to control.  He broke off abruptly.  “What are you thinking?” he demanded.

She gave no sign of triumph at having accomplished her purpose—­at having forced his thoughts to leave his pet subject, himself, and center upon her.  “I was thinking,” said she reflectively, “what a brave whistler you are.”