February 1. Last night Robert started for Europe. He is going to see Nadeshda's father and mother. I begin to suspect that Nadeshda has really gone abroad and that she has let him know. He is certainly in a very different frame of mind from what he was at first. But he says nothing, hints nothing. Rachel, who has a huge sentimental streak in her, has given Robert a letter to her sister Ellen—she's married to one of the biggest nobles in the empire, Prince GlÜckstein. Also, she has written Ellen a long, long letter, telling her all about Robert, and what a great catch he is. And he is a great catch now, for Senator Burke has organized a company to take over his patents and pay him a big sum for them—it'll sound fabulously big to such people as the Daraganes. For even where these foreigners are very rich and have miles on miles of land and large incomes from it, they're not used to the kind of fortunes we have—the sums in cash, or in property that's easily sold. And the Daraganes have only rank; their estates are quite insignificant, Von Slovatsky says.

"They might as well consent first as last," said Mrs. Burke to me just after Robert left; "for Bob always gets what he wants. He never lets go. Cyrus is the same way—he spent eleven months in the mountains once, and like to 'a' starved and froze and died of fever, just because he'd made up his mind not to come back without a grizzly. That's why the President took to him."

And then she told me that it was Cyrus who thought out the scheme for making Robert financially eligible and put it in such form that Robert consented. That convicted me of injustice again, for I had been suspecting him of being secretly pleased at Robert's set-back—he certainly hasn't looked in the least sorry for him. But it may be that Robert has told him more than he's told us. He certainly couldn't have found a closer-mouthed person. As his mother says, "The grave's a blabmouth beside him when it comes to keeping secrets. And most men are such gossips."

Mrs. Fortescue came in to tea this afternoon. Mrs. Burke was out calling, and I received her—or, rather, she caught me, for I detest her. Just as she was going Cyrus popped in, and she nailed him before he could pop out. She thought it was a good chance to put in a few strong strokes for her daughter. "Of course, it's very pretty and romantic about Nadeshda," she said, "and in this case I'm sure no one with a spark of heart could object. Still, the principle is bad. I don't think young girls who are properly brought up are so impulsive and imprudent. I often say to my husband that I think it's perfectly frightful the way girls—young girls—go about in Washington. They're out before they should be even thinking of leaving the nursery, and go round practically unchaperoned. It's so demoralizing.""But how are they to compete with the young married women if they don't?" said Cyrus, because he was evidently expected to say something.

"I don't think a man—a sensible man—looking for a wife for his home and a mother for his children would want a girl who'd been 'competing' in Washington society," she answered. "I don't at all approve the way American girls are brought up, anyway—it's entirely too free and destructive of the innocence that is a woman's chief charm. And as for turning the young girls loose in Washington!" Mrs. Fortescue threw up her hands. "It's simply madness. Most of the men are foreigners, accustomed to meet only married women in society. They don't know how to take a young girl, and they don't understand this American freedom. The wonder to me is that we don't have a regular cataclysm every season. Now, I never permit Mildred to go anywhere without me or some other real chaperon. And I know that her mind is like a fresh rose-leaf."

Cyrus and I exchanged a covert glance of amusement. Mildred Fortescue is a very nice, sweet girl, but—well, she does fool her mother scandalously.

"I should think a man would positively be afraid to marry the ordinary Washington society girl who knows everything that she shouldn't and nothing that she should."

"Perhaps that's what makes them so irresistible," said Cyrus.

"Irresistible to flirt with and to flaner about with," said Mrs. Fortescue reproachfully. "But I'm sure you wouldn't marry one of them, Mr. Burke."

"Oh, I don't know," he answered. "No doubt it does spoil a good many, being so free and associating with experienced men who've been brought up in a very different way. But"—he hesitated and blushed uncomfortably—"it seems to me that those who do come through all right are about the best anywhere. If a girl has any really bad qualities anywhere in her they come out here. And if a Washington girl does marry a man—for himself—and I rather think they make marriages of the heart more than most girls in the same sort of society in other cities—don't you, Miss Talltowers?"

"It may be so," I replied. "But probably they're much like girls—and men—everywhere. They make marriages of the heart if they get the chance. And if nobody happens along in the marrying mood who is able to appeal to their hearts, they select the most eligible among the agreeable ones they can get. I think many a girl has been branded as mercenary when in reality the rich man she chose was neither more nor less agreeable than the poor man she rejected, and she only had choice among men she didn't especially care about."

Mrs. Fortescue looked disgusted. Cyrus showed that he agreed with me. "What I was going to say," he went on, "was, that if a Washington girl does choose a man, after she has known lots of men and has come to prefer him, she's not likely—at least, not so likely—to repent her bargain. And," he said, getting quite warmed up by his subject, "if a man looks forward to his wife's going about in society, as he must if he lives in a certain way, I think he's wise to select some one who has learned something of the world—how to conduct herself, how to control herself, how to fill the rÔle Fate has assigned her."

"Oh, of course, a girl should be well-bred," said Mrs. Fortescue, as sourly as her sort of woman can speak to a bachelor with prospects.

Cyrus said no more, and soon she was off. He stood at the window watching her carriage drive away. He turned abruptly—I was at the little desk, writing a note.

"You can't imagine," he said with quick energy, "how I loathe the average girl brought up in conventional, exclusive society in America."

"Really?" said I, not stopping my writing—though I don't mind confessing that I was more interested in his views than I cared to let him see."Yes, really," he replied ironically. Then he went on in his former tone: "Poor things, they can't help having silly mothers with the idea of aping the European upper classes, and with hardly a notion of those upper classes beyond—well, such notions as are got in novels written by snobs for snobs. And these unfortunate girls are afraid of a genuine emotion—by Jove, I doubt if they even have the germs of genuine emotion. All that sort of thing has been weeded out of them. Little dry minds, little dry hearts—so 'proper,' so—vulgar!"

"Not in Washington," said I.

"No, not so many in Washington; though more and more all the time. Miss Talltowers, will you marry me?"

It was just like that—no warning, not a touch of sentiment toward me. I almost dropped my pen. But I managed to hide myself pretty well. I simply went on with my note, finished it, sealed and addressed it, and rang for a servant. Then I went and stood by the fire. The servant came; I gave him the note and went into my office. I had been in there perhaps ten minutes when he came, looking shy and sheepish. He stumbled over a low chair and had a ridiculous time saving himself from falling. When he finally had himself straightened up and shaken together he stood with his hands behind him, and his face red, and his eyes down, and with his mouth fixed in that foolish little way as if he were about to speak with his fancy-work way of handling his words.

"Do you wish something?" I asked.

"Only—only my answer," said he humbly.Would you believe it, I actually hesitated.

"I want a woman that doesn't like me for my money, and that at the same time would know how to act and would be—be sensible. I've had you in mind ever since you explained your system for—for"—he smiled faintly—"exploiting mother and father. And mother has been talking in the same way of late. She says we can't afford to let you get out of the family. That's all, I guess—all you'd have patience to hear."

"Then you were making me a serious business proposition?" said I.

"Well, you might call it that," he admitted, as if he weren't altogether satisfied with my way of summing it up.

"I'm much obliged, but it doesn't attract me," I said.

He gave a kind of hopeless gesture. "I've put it all wrong," said he. "I always say things wrong. But—I—I believe I do things better." And he gave me a look that I liked. It was such a quaint mingling of such a nice man with such a nice boy.

"I understand perfectly," said I, and I can't tell how much I hated to hurt him—he did so remind me of dear old "ma" Burke. "But—please don't discuss it. I couldn't consider the matter—possibly."

"You won't leave!" he exclaimed. "I assure you I'll not annoy you. You must admit, Miss Talltowers, that I haven't tried to thrust myself on you in the past. And—really, mother and father couldn't get on at all without you."

"Certainly, I shan't leave—why should I?" said I. "I'm very well satisfied with my position.""Thank you," he said with an awkward bow, and he left me alone.

Of course, I couldn't possibly marry him. But I suppose a woman's vanity compels her to take a more favorable view of any man after she's found out that he wishes to marry her. Anyhow, I find I don't dislike him at all as I thought I did. I couldn't help being amused at myself the next day. I was driving with Jessie, and she was giving me her usual sermon on the advantages of the Burke alliance—if I could by chance scheme it through. "You're very pretty, Gus," she said. "In fact you're beautiful at times. Men do like height when it goes with your sort of a—a willowy figure. Your eyes alone—if you would only use them—would catch him. And the Burkes would be—well, they might object a little at first because you've given them a position that has no doubt swollen their heads—but they'd yield gracefully. And although you are very attractive and are always having men in love with you, you've simply got to make up your mind soon. Look how many such nice, good-looking girls have been crowded aside by the young ones. Men are crazy about freshness, no matter what they pretend. Yes, you must decide, dear. And—I couldn't endure poor Carteret when I married him."

Carteret is a miserable specimen, and Jessie's ways keep him in a dazed state—like an old hen sitting on a limb and turning her head round and round to keep watch on a fox that's racing in a circle underneath. Fox doesn't seem exactly to fit Jessie, but sometimes I suspect—however—"But," Jessie was going on, "I knew mama was my best friend. And when she said, 'Six months after marriage you'll be quite used to him and won't in the least mind, and you'll be so glad you married somebody who was quiet and good,' I married him. And I love him dearly, Gus, and we make each other so happy!"

I laughed—Jessie doesn't mind; she don't understand what laughter means in most people. I was thinking of what Rachel told me the other day. She said to Carteret, "It must be great fun wondering what Jessie will do next." And he looked at her in his dumb way and said: "What she'll do next? Lord, I ain't caught up with that. I'm just about six weeks behind on her record all the time."

But to go back to Jessie's talk to me, she went on: "And Mr. Burke's not so dreadfully unattractive, dear. Of course, he's far from handsome, and—well, he's the son of Mr. and Mrs. Burke—but though they're quite common and all that—"

I found myself furiously angry. "I don't think he's at all bad-looking," I said, pretending to be judicial. "He's big and strong and sensible; and what more does a woman usually ask for? And I don't at all agree with you about his father and mother, either—especially his mother. No, Jessie, dear, my objections aren't yours at all. I'm sure you wouldn't understand them, so let's not talk about it."

February 3. Yesterday Mrs. Tevis sent for me. That was a good deal of an impertinence, but I'm getting very sensible about impertinences. She lives in grand style in a big, new house in K Street—it, like everything about her, is "regardless of expense." The Tevises have been making the most desperate efforts to "break in" last season and this, and as Washington is, up to a certain point, very easy for strangers with money, they've gone pretty far. I suppose Washington's like every other capital—the people are so used to all sorts of queer strangers and everything is so restless and changeful that no one minds adding to his list of acquaintances any person who offers entertainment and isn't too appalling. And the Tevises have been spending money like water.

It's queer how people can go everywhere that anybody goes and can seem to be "right in it," yet not be in it at all. That's the way it is with the Tevises. They are at every big affair in town—White House, embassies, private houses. But they're never invited to the smaller, more or less informal things. And when they do appear at a ball or anywhere they're treated with formal politeness. They know there's something wrong, but they can't for the life of them see what it is. And that's not strange, for who can see the line that's instinctively drawn between social sheep and social goats in the flock that's apparently all mixed up? Everybody knows the sheep on sight; everybody knows the goats. And all act accordingly without anything being said.

Well, Mr. and Mrs. Tevis are goats. Why? Anybody could see it after talking to either of them for five minutes; yet who could say why? It isn't because they're snobs—lots of sheep are nauseating snobs. It isn't because they're very badly self-made—I defy anybody to produce a goat that can touch Willie Catesby or Rennie Tucker, yet each of them has ancestors by the score. It isn't because they're new—the Burkes are new, yet Mrs. Burke has at least a dozen intimate acquaintances of the right sort. It isn't because they're ostentatious and boastful about wealth and prices—there are scores of sheep who make the same sort of absurd exhibition of vulgarity. I can't place it. They're just goats, and they know it, and they feel it; and when you go to their house they suggest a restaurant keeper welcoming his customers; and when they come to your house they suggest Cook's tourists roaming in the private apartments of a palace, smiling apologetically at every one and wondering whether they're not about to be told to "step lively."Mrs. Tevis received me very grandly and graciously, though dreadfully nervous withal, lest I should be seeing that she was "throwing a bluff" and should put her in her place.

"I've requested you to come, my dear Miss Talltowers," she began, after she had bunglingly served tea from the newest and costliest and most elaborate tea-set I ever saw, "because I had a little matter of business to talk over with you and felt that we could talk more freely here."

"I must be back at half-past five," said I, by way of urging her on to the point.

"That will be quite time enough," said she. "We can have our little conversation quite nicely, and you will be in ample time for your duties."

I wonder what sort of dialect she thinks in. It certainly can't be more irritating than the one she translates her thoughts into before speaking them. The dialect she inflicts on people sounds as if it were from a Complete Conversationalist, got up by an old maid who had been teaching school for forty years.

"I have decided to take a secretary for next season," she went on. "Not that I need any such direction as the Burkes. Fortunately, Mr. Tevis and I have had a large social experience on both sides of the Atlantic and have always moved with the best people. But just a secretary—to attend to my onerous correspondence and arrangements for entertaining. The duties would be light, but we should be willing to pay a larger salary than the position would really justify—that is, we should be willing to pay it, you know, to a lady such as you are."

I bowed.

"We should treat you with all delicacy and appreciation of the fact that your misfortunes have compelled you to take a—a—position—which—which—"

"You are very kind, Mrs. Tevis," said I.

"And we realized that in all probability the Burkes would have no further use for your services at the end of this season, as you have been most successful with them."

I winced. For the first time the "practical" view of what I've been doing for the Burkes stared me in the face—that is, the view which such people as the Tevises, perhaps many of my friends, took of it. So I was being regarded, spoken of, discussed, as a person who had been bought by the Burkes to get them in with certain people. And it was assumed that, having got what they wanted, they would dismiss me and so cut off a superfluous expense! I was somewhat astonished at myself for not having seen my position in this light before.

And I suddenly realized why I hadn't—because the Burkes were really nice people, because I hadn't been their employee but their friend. What if I had started my career as a dependent of Mrs. Tevis'! I shivered. And when the Burkes should need me no longer—why, the probabilities were that I should have to seek employment from just such dreadful people as these—upstarts eager to jam themselves in, vulgarians whom icy manners and forbidding looks only influence to fiercer efforts to associate with those who don't wish to associate with them.

Mrs. Tevis interrupted my dismal thoughts with a cough, intended to be polite. "What—what—compensation would you expect, may I ask?"

"What do such positions pay?" I said, and my voice sounded harsh to me. I wished to know what value was usually put upon such services.

"Would—say—twenty-five dollars a week be—meet with your views?" she asked, and her tone was that of a person performing an act of astounding generosity.

"Oh, dear me, no," said I, with the kind of sweetness that coats a pill of gall. "I couldn't think of trying to get you in for any such sum as that."

I saw that the gall had bit through the sugar-coat.

"Would you object to giving me some idea of what the Burkes pay?" she asked, with the taste puckering her mouth.

"I should," I replied, rising. "Anyhow, I don't care to undertake the job. Thank you so much for your generosity and kindness, Mrs. Tevis." I nodded—I'm afraid it was a nod intended to "put her in her place." "Good-by." And I smiled and got myself out of the room before she recovered.

I wish I hadn't seen her. I hate the truth—it's always unpleasant.

February 5. Mrs. Burke had thirty-one invitations to-day, eleven of them for her and Mr. Burke. Seven were invitations to little affairs which Mrs. Tevis would give—well, perhaps five dollars apiece—to get to. How ridiculous for her to economize in the one way in which liberality is most necessary. Here they are spending probably a hundred thousand dollars a season in hopeless attempts to do that which they would hesitate to pay me six hundred dollars for doing. And this when they think I could accomplish it. But could I? I guess not. To win out as I have with the Burkes you've got to have the right sort of material to work on, and it must be workable. Vulgar people would be ashamed to put themselves in any one's hands as completely as Mrs. Burke put herself in my hands.

Oh, I'm sick—sick, sick of it! I'm ashamed to look "ma" Burke in the face, because I think such mean things about them all when I'm in bed and blue.

February 6. I decline all the invitations that come for me personally. I sit in my "office" and pretend to be fussing with my books—they give me the horrors! And I was so proud of them and of my plans to make my little enterprise a success.

February 7. Mrs. Burke came in this afternoon and came round my desk and kissed me. "What is it, dear? What's the matter?" she said. "Won't you tell me? Why, I feel as if you were my daughter. I did have a daughter. She came first. Tom was so disappointed. But I was glad. A son belongs to both his parents, and, when he's grown up, to his wife. But a daughter—she would 'a' belonged to me always. And she had to up and die just when she was about to make up her mind to talk."

I put my face down in my arms on the desk.

"Tired, dear?" said "ma"—she's a born "ma." "Of course, that's it. You're clean pegged out, working and worrying. You must put it all away and rest." And she sat down by me.

All of a sudden—I couldn't help it—I put my head on her great, big bosom and burst out crying. "Oh, I'm so bad!" I said. "And you're so good!"

She patted me and kissed me on top of my head. "What pretty, soft hair you have, dear," she said, "and what a lot of it! My! My! I don't see how anybody that looks like you do could ever be unhappy a minute. You don't know what it means to be born homely and fat and to have to work hard just to make people not object to having you about." And she went on talking in that way until I was presently laughing, still against that great, big bosom with the great, big heart beating under it. When I felt that it would be a downright imposition to stay there any longer I straightened up. I felt quite cheerful.

"Was there something worrying you?" she asked.

I blushed and hung my head. "Yes, but I can't tell you," said I. And I couldn't—could I? Besides, there somehow doesn't seem to be much of anything in all my brooding. What a nasty beast that Mrs. Tevis is!

February 12. Mrs. Burke and I went to a reception at the Secretary of State's this afternoon. We saw Nadeshda's sister in the distance—that's where we've always seen her and the ambassador and the whole embassy staff ever since the "bust-up," except funny little De Pleyev. He, being of a mediatized family, does not need to disturb himself about ambassadorial frowns or smiles. It's curious what a strong resemblance there is between a foreigner of royal blood and a straightaway American gentleman. But, as I was about to write, this afternoon the distance between us and Madame l'Ambassadrice slowly lessened, and when she was quite close to us she gave us a dazzling smile apiece and said to Mrs. Burke: "My dear Madame Burke, you are looking most charming. You must come to us to tea. To-morrow? Do say yes—we've missed you so. My poor back—it almost shuts me out of the world." And she passed on—probably didn't wish to risk the chance that "ma's" puzzled look might give place to an expression of some kind of anger and that she might make one of those frank speeches she's famous for.

"Well, did you ever!" exclaimed "ma" when the Countess was out of earshot.

I said warningly: "Everybody's seen it and is watching you." And it was true. The whole crowd in those perfume-steeped rooms was gaping, and the news had spread so quickly that a throng was pushing in from the tea-room, some of them still chewing.

Afterward we discussed it, and could come to but one conclusion—that the Robert-Nadeshda crisis had passed. But—do the Daraganes think that Nadeshda is safe from Robert, or have they decided to take him in? Certainly, something decisive has happened. And if Robert had anything to do with it it must have been stirring enough to make the Daraganes use the cable—how else could Nadeshda's sister have got her cue so soon?

February 15. No news whatever of Robert and Nadeshda. Yesterday the ambassadress came here to tea and said to Mrs. Burke that she had had a letter from Nadeshda in which she sent us all her love—"especially your dear, splendid, big Monsieur Cyrus." Mr. and Mrs. Burke are to dine at the embassy five weeks from to-night—the ambassadress insisted on Mrs. Burke's giving her first free evening to her, and that was it.

"I reckon we'll have to go," said "ma" after her departure, and while the odor of her frightfully-powerful heliotrope scent was still heavy in the room, "though I doubt if I'll be alive by then. Sometimes it seems to me I've just got to knock off and take a clean week in bed. I thought I'd never think of drugs to keep me going, as so many women advise. But I see I'm getting round to it. And I'm getting that fat in the body and that lean in the face! Did you ever see the like? I must 'a' lost three pounds off my face. And the skin's hanging there waiting for it to come back, instead of shrinking. I'm glad my Tom never looks at me. I know to a certainty he ain't looked at me in twenty years. Husbands and wives don't waste much time looking at each other, and I guess it's a good, safe plan."

Mrs. Burke does look badly. I must take better care of her. Cyrus looks badly, too. I haven't seen him to talk to since he made his "strictly business" proposition. I suppose he wants me to realize that he isn't one of the pestering kind. I'm sorry he takes it that way, as I'd have liked to be friends with him. He quarreled so beautifully when we didn't agree. It's a great satisfaction to have some one at hand who both agrees and quarrels in a satisfactory way. But I don't dare make any advances to him. He might misunderstand.

I've just been laughing—at his cowlick. It is such an obstinate little swirl. And when he looks serious it looks so funnily frisky, and when he smiles it looks so fiercely serious and disapproving. Yesterday I hurried suddenly into the little room just off the ball-room, thinking it was empty. But Cyrus and his mother were there, and he was tickling her, and he looked so fond of her, and she looked so delighted. I slipped away without their seeing me.

February 16. We gave our second big ball last night with a dinner for sixty before. It was just half-past five this morning when the last couple came sneaking out from the alcove off the little room beyond the conservatory and, we pretending not to see them, scuttled away without saying good night. Major-General Cutler danced with Mrs. Burke in the opening quadrille, and Mr. Burke danced with the British ambassadress—the ambassador is ill. I had Jim on my hands most of the evening—though I was flirting desperately with little D'Estourelle, he hung to me with a maddening husbandish air of proprietorship. I don't see how I ever endured him, much less thought of marrying him. Cyrus Burke is a king beside him. Excuse me from men who think the fact that they've done a woman the honor of loving her gives them a property right to her. Mrs. Burke was the belle of the ball. She had a crowd of men round her chair all evening, laughing at everything she said.

February 17. A cable from Robert Gunton at Hamburg this morning—just "Arrive Washington about March 3." That was all—worse than nothing. It is Lent, but there's no let up for us. We only get rid of the kind of entertainments that cost us the least trouble to plan and give, and we have to arrange more of the kind that have to be done carefully. Anybody can give a dance, but it takes skill to give a successful dinner.

February 19. Nadeshda's sister said to-day, quite casually, to Jessie: "Deshda's coming back, and we're so glad. The trip has done her so much good—in every way." Now, whatever did that mean?

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