Craig’s first impulse of snobbish satisfaction was immediately followed by misgivings.  Perhaps this was not the formal acceptance of the situation by the terrible old woman as he had, on the spur, fancied.  Perhaps she had sent for him to read him the riot act.  Then he remembered that he was himself in doubt as to whether he wished to marry the young woman.  All his doubts came flooding back, and his terrors—­for, in some of its aspects, the idea of being married to this delicate flower of conventionality and gentle breeding was literally a terror to him.  If he went he would be still further committing himself; all Washington would soon know of the journey in the carriage of Madam Bowker, the most imposing car of state that appeared in the streets of the Capital, a vast, lofty affair, drawn by magnificent horses, the coachman and footman in costly, quiet livery, high ensconced.

“No, thanks,” said Josh, in his most bustlingly-bounderish manner.  “Tell the old lady I’m up to my neck in work.”

Mr. Whitesides was taken aback, but he was far too polished a gentleman to show it.  “Perhaps later?” he suggested.

“I’ve promised Margaret to go out there later.  If I get through here in time I’ll look in on Mrs. Bowker on the way.  But tell her not to wait at home for me.”

Mr. Whitesides bowed, and was glad when the outer air was blowing off him the odor of this vulgar incident.  “For,” said he to himself, “there are some manners so bad that they have a distinct bad smell.  He is ‘the limit!’ The little Severence must be infernally hard-pressed to think of taking him on.  Poor child!  She’s devilish interesting.  A really handsome bit, and smart, too —­excellent ideas about dress.  Yet somehow she’s been marooned, overlooked, while far worse have been married well.  Strange, that sort of thing.  Somewhat my own case.  I ought to have been able to get some girl with a bunch, yet I somehow always just failed to connect—­until I got beyond the marrying age.  Devilish lucky for me, too.  I’m no end better off.”  And Mr. Whitesides, sitting correctly upon Madam Bowlder’s gray silk cushions, reflected complacently upon his ample salary, his carefully built-up and most lucrative commissions, his prospects for a “smashing-good legacy when her majesty deigns to pass away.”

At four Madam Bowker, angry yet compelled to a certain respect, heard with satisfaction that Craig had come.  “Leave me, Whitesides,” said she.  “I wish to be quite alone with him throughout.”

Thus Craig, entering the great, dim drawing-room, with its panel paintings and its lofty, beautifully-frescoed ceiling, found himself alone with her.  She was throned upon a large, antique gold chair, ebony scepter in one hand, the other hand white and young-looking and in fine relief against the black silk of her skirt; she bent upon him a keen, gracious look.  Her hazel eyes were bright as a bird’s; they had the advantage over a bird’s that they saw—­saw everything in addition to seeming to see.