Presently she set out with her husband to survey the sights of the city.  Naturally their first visit was to the Capitol, in the presence of which Selma clutched his arm in the pride of her patriotism and of her pleasure that he was to be one of the makers of history within its splendid precincts.  The sight of the stately houses of Congress, superbly dominated by their imposing dome, made them both walk proudly, lost, save for occasional vivid phrases of admiration, in the contemplation of their own possible future.  What greater earthly prize for man than political distinction among a people capable of monuments like this?  What grander arena for a woman eager to demonstrate truth and promote righteousness?  There was, of course, too much to see for any one visit.  They went up to the gallery of the House of Representatives and looked down on the theatre of Lyons’s impending activities.  He was to take his seat on the day after the morrow as one of the minority party, but a strong, vigorous minority.  Selma pictured him standing in the aisle and uttering ringing words of denunciation against corporate monopolies and the money power.

“I shall come up here and listen to you often.  I shall be able to tell if you speak loud enough—­so that the public can hear you,” she said, glancing at the line of galleries which she saw in her mind’s eye crowded with spectators.  “You must make a long speech very soon.”

“That is very unlikely indeed.  They tell me a new member rarely gets a chance to be heard,” answered Lyons.

“But they will hear you.  You have something to say.”

Lyons squeezed her hand.  Her words nourished the same hope in his own breast.  “I shall take advantage of every opportunity to obtain recognition, and to give utterance to my opinions.”

“Oh yes, I shall expect you to speak.  I am counting on that.”

On their way down they scanned with interest the statues and portraits of distinguished statesmen and heroes, and the representations of famous episodes in American history with which the walls of the landings and the rotunda are lined.

“Some day you will be here,” said Selma.  “I wonder who will paint you or make your bust.  I have often thought,” she added, wistfully, “that, if I had given my mind to it, I could have modelled well in clay.  Some day I’ll try.  It would be interesting, wouldn’t it, to have you here in marble with the inscription underneath, ’Bust of the Honorable James O. Lyons, sculptured by his wife?’”

Lyons laughed, but he was pleased.  “You are making rapid strides, my dear.  I am sure of one thing—­if my bust or portrait ever is here, I shall owe my success largely to your devotion and good sense.  I felt certain of it before, but our honeymoon has proved to me that we were meant for one another.”

“Yes, I think we were.  And I like to hear you say I have good sense.  That is what I pride myself on as a wife.”