On their return to the hotel Selma was annoyed to find that no one but a member of her husband’s Congressional delegation had called.  She had hoped to find that their presence in Washington was known and appreciated.  It seemed to her, moreover, that they were not treated at the hotel with the deference she had supposed would be accorded to them.  To be sure, equality was of the essence of American doctrine; nevertheless she had anticipated that the official representatives of the people would be made much of, and distinguished from the rest of the world, if not by direct attention, by being pointed out and looked at admiringly.  Still, as Lyons showed no signs of disappointment, she forbore to express her own perplexity, which was temporarily relieved by an invitation from him to drive.  The atmosphere was mild enough for an open carriage, and Selma’s appetite for processional effect derived some crumbs of comfort from the process of showing herself in a barouche by the side of her husband.  They proceeded in an opposite direction from the Capitol, and after surveying the outside of the White House, drove along the avenues and circles occupied by private residences.  Selma noticed that these houses, though attractive, were less magnificent and conspicuous than many of those in New York—­more like her own in Benham; and she pictured as their occupants the families of the public men of the country—­a society of their wives and daughters living worthily, energetically, and with becoming stateliness, yet at the same time rebuking by their example frivolity and rampant luxury.  She observed with satisfaction the passage of a number of private carriages, and that their occupants were stylishly clad.  She reflected that, as, the wife of a Congressman, her place was among them, and she was glad that they recognized the claims of social development so far as to dress well and live in comfort.  Before starting she had herself fastened a bunch of red roses at her waist as a contribution to her picturesqueness as a public woman.

While she was thus absorbed in speculation, not altogether free from worrying suspicions, in spite of her mental vision as to the occupants of these private residences, she uttered an ejaculation of surprise as a jaunty victoria passed by them, and she turned her head in an eager attempt to ascertain if her surprise and annoyance were well-founded.  The other vehicle was moving rapidly, but a similar curiosity impelled one of its occupants to look hack also, and the eyes of the two women met.

“It’s she; I thought it was.”

“Who, my dear?” said Lyons.

“Flossy Williams—­Mrs. Gregory Williams.  I wonder,” she added, in a severe tone, “what she is doing here, and how she happens to be associating with these people.  That was a private carriage.”

“Williams has a number of friends in Washington, I imagine.  I thought it likely that he would be here.  That was another proof of your good sense, Selma—­deciding to let bygones be bygones and to ignore your disagreement with his wife.”