“It’s congenial,” said Washington brightening up, “when it’s not congealed.”

“That’s very good.  Did you hear, Grace, Mr. Hawkins says it’s congenial when it’s not congealed.”

“What is, dear?” said Grace, who was talking with Laura.

The conversation was now finely under way.  Washington launched out an observation of his own.

“Did you see those Japs, Miss Leavitt?”

“Oh, yes, aren’t they queer.  But so high-bred, so picturesque.  Do you think that color makes any difference, Mr. Hawkins?  I used to be so prejudiced against color.”

“Did you?  I never was.  I used to think my old mammy was handsome.”

“How interesting your life must have been!  I should like to hear about it.”

Washington was about settling himself into his narrative style, when Mrs. Gen. McFingal caught his eye.

“Have you been at the Capitol to-day, Mr. Hawkins?”

Washington had not.  “Is anything uncommon going on?”

“They say it was very exciting.  The Alabama business you know.  Gen. Sutler, of Massachusetts, defied England, and they say he wants war.”

“He wants to make himself conspicuous more like,” said Laura.  “He always, you have noticed, talks with one eye on the gallery, while the other is on the speaker.”

“Well, my husband says, its nonsense to talk of war, and wicked.  He knows what war is.  If we do have war, I hope it will be for the patriots of Cuba.  Don’t you think we want Cuba, Mr. Hawkins?”

“I think we want it bad,” said Washington.  “And Santo Domingo.  Senator Dilworthy says, we are bound to extend our religion over the isles of the sea.  We’ve got to round out our territory, and—­”

Washington’s further observations were broken off by Laura, who whisked him off to another part of the room, and reminded him that they must make their adieux.

“How stupid and tiresome these people are,” she said.  “Let’s go.”

They were turning to say good-by to the hostess, when Laura’s attention was arrested by the sight of a gentleman who was just speaking to Mrs. Schoonmaker.  For a second her heart stopped beating.  He was a handsome man of forty and perhaps more, with grayish hair and whiskers, and he walked with a cane, as if he were slightly lame.  He might be less than forty, for his face was worn into hard lines, and he was pale.

No.  It could not be, she said to herself.  It is only a resemblance.  But as the gentleman turned and she saw his full face, Laura put out her hand and clutched Washington’s arm to prevent herself from falling.

Washington, who was not minding anything, as usual, looked ’round in wonder.  Laura’s eyes were blazing fire and hatred; he had never seen her look so before; and her face, was livid.

“Why, what is it, sis?  Your face is as white as paper.”

“It’s he, it’s he.  Come, come,” and she dragged him away.