"I don't know; I could find no card or note with them."

"Perhaps Sinclair Spencer has decided to send them anonymously." With a
look of repugnance, Kathleen pulled the flowers off and before her father
could interfere, opened the door and tossed the bouquet into the street.
"Good gracious, Kathleen, don't take everything that I say literally!"
exclaimed Mrs. Whitney. "I am sorry I suggested...."

"I am not, mother. After last night, nothing would induce me to wear
his flowers again," declared Kathleen with spirit. "Father, what made
you tele--"

"Here we are," broke in Whitney, apparently not hearing Kathleen's
remark, as the limousine drew up at the entrance to the Senate side of
the Capitol. "Jump out, Kathleen. Careful, Minna." But without assistance
Mrs. Whitney sprang lightly to the ground, a worried look on her face.

"I do believe, Winslow," she said, "that I have left my admission card to
the private gallery at home. It isn't in my bag."

"Don't mind, I'll look up Randall Foster; he'll see we get in. Come
this way."

They found the corridors of the huge building filled with hurrying men
and women, and Whitney spent fully twenty minutes before he succeeded in
obtaining the coveted card to the private gallery from his friend,
Senator Foster. To Mrs. Whitney's dismay they found the gallery filled;
but fortune favored them, for just after their entrance three women
seated in the front row rose and made their way out. With a quickness
which showed her familiarity with conventions Mrs. Whitney pounced upon