THE caucus of the delegates of the Women’s Convention was booked to meet at six o’clock. The House would hold a night session and the vote on the Defense Bill would be called between ten and eleven.

To prevent the possibility of any influence from Vassar’s speech reaching the caucus, Waldron succeeded in changing the hour to three o’clock. He would prolong the discussion until six and deliver their orders to the members of Congress in ample time.

Vassar saw him whispering in earnest conference with Barker and Virginia, guessed instinctively a change of program and in ten minutes his secretary had confirmed his suspicions.

There was no time to be lost. He made up his mind instantly to throw pride to the winds and make a personal appeal to the one woman whose influence in the crisis could dominate the councils of the opposition.

He called a cab and reached the Willard at the moment Barker was handing Virginia from Waldron’s car.

An instant of hesitating doubt swept him as he thought of the possibility of a public refusal to meet or confer. He couldn’t believe she would be so ungracious. He must risk it. The situation was too critical to stand on ceremony.

He raised his hat and bowed with awkward excitement.

“May I have a few minutes of your time, Miss Holland?” he asked.

She blushed, hesitated and answered nervously.

“Certainly, Mr. Congressman. Your speech was eloquent but unconvincing. I congratulate you on your style if I can’t agree with your conclusions.”

Barker laughed heartily and Waldron’s face remained a stolid mask.

“You will excuse me, gentlemen,” she said to her associates. “I’ll see you in ten minutes—”

She paused and smiled politely to Vassar:

“The ladies’ parlor?”

“Yes,” he answered, leading the way to the elevator, and in two minutes faced her with his hands tightly gripped behind his back, his eyes lighted by the fires of tense emotion.

Her control was perfect, if she felt any unusual stir of feeling. He marvelled at her composure. He had vaguely hoped this first meeting after their break might lead to a reconciliation. But her bearing was as coldly impersonal as if he were a book agent trying to sell her a set of ancient histories.

He throttled a mad impulse to tell her again that he had loved her with every beat of his heart every moment since they had parted.

“You know, of course,” he began, “that in this crisis you hold the balance of power in a struggle that may decide the destiny of America?”

“I have been told so—”

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