February 26. No news of Robert and Nadeshda. Have been glancing through this diary. How conceited I am, taking credit to myself for everything. I wonder if I am vainer than most people, or does everybody make the same ridiculous discovery about himself when he takes himself off his guard? What an imperfect record this is of our launching. But then, if I had made it perfect I should have had to go into so many wearisome details, not to speak of my having so little time. Still, it would have been interesting to read some day, when I shall have forgotten the little steps—for although we've had in all only a month before the season and five weeks between New Year's and Ash Wednesday, so much has been crowded into that time. It's amazing what one can accomplish if one uses every moment to a single purpose. And I've not only used my own time, but Robert's and Jessie's and the time of their and my friends, and that of Nadeshda and a dozen other people. They and I all worked together to make my enterprise a success—and Jim and the Senator, and "ma" Burke was a great help after the first few weeks. Yes, and I mustn't forget Cyrus. He has made himself astonishingly popular. I see now that he showed a better side to every one than he did to me. Perhaps I can guess why. I wonder if he really cares or did care—for me, or was it just "ma" trying to get me into the family, and he willing to do anything she asked of him?

But to go back to my vanity—I see that Jessie, Rachel and Cyrus were the real cause of my success. Jessie and Rachel alone could make anybody, who wasn't positively awful, a go. Then Nadeshda, bent on marrying Cyrus at first, was a big help—and every mama with a marriageable daughter was hot on Cyrus' trail. So it's easy to make an infallible recipe for getting into society: First, wealth; second, willingness to act on competent advice; third, get a "secretary" who knows society and has intimate friends in its most exclusive set, and who also knows how to arrange entertainments; fourth, have a marriageable son, if possible, or, failing that, a daughter, or, failing that, a near relative who will be well dowered; fifth, organize the campaign thoroughly and pay particular attention to getting yourself liked by the few people who really count. You can't bribe them; you can't drive them; you must amuse them. The more leisure people have the harder it is to amuse them.

Looking back, I can see that "ma" Burke passed her social crisis when, on January 5, Mrs. Gaether asked her to assist at her reception. For Mrs. Gaether was the first social power who took "ma" up simply and solely because she liked her.

We have spent a great deal of money, but not half what the Tevises have spent. But our money counted because it was incidental. Mere money won't carry any one very far in Washington—I don't believe it will anywhere, except, perhaps, in New York.

I ought to have kept some sort of record of what we've done from day to day—I mean, more detailed than my books. However, I'll just put in our last full day before Lent, as far as I can recall it. No, I'll only write out what Mrs. Burke alone did that day:

7:30 to 10. She and I, in her room, went over the arrangements for the ball we were giving in the evening.

10 to 12:30. She went to see half a dozen people about various social matters, besides doing a great deal of shopping.

12:30 to 1:45. More worrying consultation with me, then dressing for luncheon.

1:45 to 3:45. A long and tiresome luncheon at one of the embassies.3:45 to 6:30. More than twenty calls and teas—a succession of exhausting rushes and struggles.

6:30 to 7:15. In the drawing-room here, with a lot of people coming and going.

7:15 to 8. Dressing for dinner—a frightful rush.

8 to 8:30. Receiving the dinner guests.

8:30 to 10:45. The dinner.

10:45 to midnight. Receiving the guests for the dance—on her feet all the time.

Midnight to 6 in the morning. Sitting, but incessantly busy.

6 to 9. In bed.

9. A new and crowded day.

This has been a short season, but I don't think it was the shortness, crowding much into a few days, that made the pressure so great. It's simply that year by year Washington becomes socially worse and worse. As I looked round at that last ball of ours I pitied the people who were nerving themselves up to trying to enjoy themselves.

Almost every one was, and looked, worn out. Here and there the unnatural brightness of eyes or cheeks showed that somebody—usually a young person—had been driven to some sort of stimulant to enable him or her to hold the pace. Quick to laugh; quick to frown and bite the lips in almost uncontrollable anger. Nerves on edge, flesh quivering.

Yet, what is one to do? To be "in it" one must go all the time; not to go all the time, not to accept all the principal invitations, is to make enemies right and left. Besides, who that gets into the hysterical state which the Washington season induces can be content to sit quietly at home when on every side there are alluring opportunities to enjoy?

No wonder we see less and less of the men of importance. No wonder the "sons of somebodies" and the young men of the embassies and legations and departments, most of them amiable enough, but all just about as near nothing as you would naturally expect, are the best the women can get to their houses.

It is foolish; it is frightful. But it is somehow fascinating, and it gives us women the chance to go the same reckless American gait that the men go in their business and professions.

I am utterly worn out. I might be asleep at this moment. Yet I'm sitting here alone, too feverish for hope of rest. And I can see lights in Cyrus' apartment and in Senator Burke's sitting-room, and I don't doubt poor "ma" is tossing miserably in a vain attempt to get the sleep that used to come unasked and stay until it was fought off.

It is Lent, and the season is supposed to be over. But the rush is still on, and other things which crowd and jam in more than fill up the vacant space left by big, formal parties. It seems to me that there is even as much dancing as there was two weeks ago. The only difference is that it isn't formally arranged for beforehand.

I'd like to "shut off steam"—indeed, it seems to me that I must if "ma" Burke is not to be sacrificed. But how can we? People expect us to entertain, and we must go out to their affairs also. The only escape would be to fly, and we can't do that so long as Congress is sitting.

February 27. Robert and Nadeshda are both in town, he with us, she at the embassy. They are to be married the twelfth of April. The engagement is to be announced to-morrow. I've never seen any one more demure than Nadeshda, or happier. I suspect she's going to settle down into the most domestic of women. Indeed, I know it—for, as she says, she's afraid of him, obeys him as a dog its master, and the domestic side of her is the only one he'll tolerate. I've always heard that her sort of woman is the tamest, once it's under control. She has will but no continuity. He has a stronger will and his purposes are unalterable. So he'll continue to dominate her.

"Ma" Burke asked him, "How did you make out with her folks?"He smiled, then laughed.

"I don't know—exactly," he said. "They couldn't talk my language nor I theirs. So it was all done through an interpreter. And he was Mrs. Dean's brother-in-law, Prince GlÜckstein, and a regular trump. He saw them half a dozen times before I did. When I saw them everything was lovely. They left me alone with her after twenty minutes. Finally it was agreed that we should come back on the same steamer, her brother accompanying her."

"But why on earth didn't you cable us?" she demanded.

"I did," he replied.

"But you didn't tell us anything," she returned.

"I told you all there was to tell," he replied."You only said you were coming," she objected.

"Well," he answered, looking somewhat surprised, "I knew you'd know I wouldn't come without her."

I'm glad he didn't get it into his head to "take after" me. A woman stands no more chance with a man like that than a rabbit with a greyhound.

February 29. "Ma" Burke is dreadfully ill—has been for two days. The doctors have got several large Latin names for it, but the plain truth is that she has broken down under the strain she seemed to be bearing so placidly. She didn't give up until she was absolutely unable to lift herself out of bed. "I knew it was coming," she said, "but I thought I had spirit enough to put it off till I had more time."

It wasn't until she did give up that her face really showed how badly off she was. I was sitting by her bed when "pa" Burke and Cyrus came in. I couldn't bear to look at them, yet I couldn't keep my eyes off their faces. Both got deadly white at sight of her, and "pa" rushed from the room after a moment or two. The doctor had cautioned him against alarming her by showing any signs of grief. But "pa" couldn't stand it. He went to his study, and the housekeeper told me he cried like a baby. Cyrus stayed, and I couldn't help admiring the way he put on cheerfulness.

"I'll be all right in a few days," said "ma." "It wasn't what I did; it was what I et. I'm such a fool that I can't let things that look good go by. And I went from house to house, munching away, cake here, candy there, chocolate yonder, besides lunches and dinners and suppers. I et in and I et out. Now, I reckon I've got to settle the bill. Thank the Lord I don't have to do it standing up."

Cyrus and I went away from her room together. "If she wasn't so good," said he, more to himself than to me, "I'd not be so—so uncertain."

"I feel that I'm to blame," said I bitterly. "It was I that gave her all those things to do."

He was silent, and his silence frightened me. I had felt that I was partly to blame. His silence made me feel that I was wholly to blame, and that he thought so.

"If I could only undo it," I said, in what little voice I could muster.

"If you only could," he muttered.

I was utterly crushed. Every bit of my courage fled, and—but what's the use of trying to describe it? It was as if I had tried to murder her and had come to my senses and was realizing what I'd done.

I suppose I must have shown what was in my mind, for, all of a sudden, with a sort of sob or groan, he put his arms round me—such a strong yet such a gentle clasp! "Don't look like that, dear!" he pleaded. "Forgive me—it was cowardly, what I said—and not true. We're all to blame—you the least. Haven't I seen, day after day, how you've done everything you could to spare her—how you've worn yourself out?"

He let me go as suddenly as he had seized me.

"I'm not fit to be called a man!" he exclaimed. "Just because I loved you, and was always thinking of you, and watching you, and worrying about you, I neglected to think of mother. If I'd given her a single thought I'd have known long ago that she was ill."

Just then Mrs. Burke's maid called me—she was only a few yards away, and must have seen everything. I hurried back to the room we had quitted a few minutes before. "You must cheer up those two big, foolish men, child," she said. "You all think I'm going to pass over, but I'm not. You won't get rid of me for many a year. And I rely on you to prevent them from going all to pieces."

She paused and looked at me wistfully, as if she longed to say something but was afraid she had no right to. I said: "What is it—ma?"

Her face brightened. "Come, kiss me," she murmured. "Thank you for saying that. We're very different in lots of ways, being raised so different. But hearts have a way of finding each other, haven't they?"

I nodded.

"What I wanted to say was about—Cyrus," she went on. "My Cyrus told me that he don't see how he could get along without you, no way, and I advised him to talk to you about it, because I knew it'd relieve his mind and because it'd set you to looking at him in a different way. Anyhow, it's always a good plan to ask for what you want. And he did—and he told me you wouldn't hear to him. Don't think I'm trying to persuade you. All I meant to say is that—"

She stopped and smiled, a bright shadow of that old, broad, beaming smile of hers."I'd do anything for you!" I exclaimed, on impulse.

"I'm afraid that wouldn't suit Cyrus," she drawled, good humoredly. "He'd be mad as the Old Scratch if he knew what I was up to now. Well—do the best you can. But don't do anything unless it's for his sake. Only—just look him over again. There's a lot to Cyrus besides his cowlick. And he's been so dead in love with you ever since he first saw you that he's been making a perfect fool of himself every time he looked at you or spoke to you. Sometimes, when I've seen the way he's acted up, like a farmhand waltzing in cowhides, I've felt like taking him over my knees and laying it on good and hard."

I was laughing so that I couldn't answer—the reaction from the fear that she might be very, very ill had made me hysterical. I could still see that she was sick, extremely sick, but I realized that our love for her had just put us into a panic.

"Do the best you can, dear," she ended. "And everything—all the entertaining here and the going out—must be kept up just the same as if I was being dragged about down stairs instead of lying up here resting."

She insisted on this, and would not be content until she had my promise. "And don't forget to cheer pa and Cyrus up. I never was sick before—not a day. That's why they take on so."

I think I have been succeeding in cheering them up. And everything is going forward as before—except, of course, that we've cut out every engagement we possibly could.

It's amazing how many friends "ma" Burke has made in such a short time. Ever since the news of her illness got out, the front door has been opening and shutting all day long. And those of the callers that I've seen have shown a real interest. This has made me have a better opinion of human nature than I had thought I could have. I suppose half the seeming heartlessness in this world is suspicion and a sort of miserly dread lest one should give kindly feeling without getting any of it in return. But "ma" Burke, who never bothers her head for an instant about whether people like her, and gets all her pleasure out of liking them, makes friends by the score.

I'm in a queer state of mind about Cyrus.

March 3. "Ma" Burke was brought down to the drawing-room for tea to-day. She held a regular levee. Those that came early spread it round, and by six o'clock they were pouring in. She looked extremely well, and gloriously happy. All she had needed was complete rest and sleep—and less to eat. "After this," she said, "I'm not going to eat more than four or five meals a day. At my age a woman can't stand the strain of ten and twelve—my record was sixteen—counting two teas as one meal." For an hour there was hilarious chattering in English, French, German, Italian, Russian, and mixtures of all five. I think the thing that most fascinates Mrs. Burke about Washington is the many languages spoken. She looks at me in an awed way when I trot out my three in quick succession. And she regards the women as superhuman who speak so many languages so fluently that they drift from one to the other without being quite sure what they're speaking. There certainly were enough going on at once to-day, and a good many of the women smoked.

But to return to Mrs. Burke. When only a few of those we know best were left this afternoon, and Nadeshda was smoking, Jessie, who is always so tactful, said to Robert: "I'm glad to see that you don't object to Nadeshda's smoking."

Mrs. Burke laughed. "Why should he?" said she. "Why, when we were children ma and pa used to sit on opposite sides of the chimney, smoking their pipes. And ma dipped, too, when it wasn't convenient for her to have her pipe."

"Do you smoke, Mrs. Burke?" asked Jessie, with wide, serious eyes. "I never saw you.""No, I don't," she confessed. "Tom used to hate the smell of it, so I never got into the habit."

Nadeshda was tremendously amused by what Mrs. Burke had said about pipes. "I didn't know it was considered nice for a lady to smoke in America until recently," said she. "And pipes! How eccentric! Mama smokes cigars—one after dinner, but I never heard of a lady smoking a pipe."

"Ma wasn't a lady—what you'd call a lady," replied Mrs. Burke. "She was just a plain woman. She didn't smoke because she thought it was fashionable, but because she thought it was comfortable. As soon as we children got a little older we used to be terribly ashamed of it—but she kept right on. And now it's come in style."

"Not pipes," said Jessie."Not yet," said "ma," with a smile.

When I thought they had all gone, and I was writing in my "office" for a few minutes before going up to dress, Nadeshda came in to me. "Ma" Burke used often to say that Nadeshda's eyes were "full of the Old Scratch," but certainly they were not at that moment. She was giving me a glimpse of that side which, as Browning, I think, says, even the meanest creature has and shows only to the person he or she loves. Not that Nadeshda loves me, but she has that side turned outermost nowadays whenever she hasn't the veil drawn completely over her real self.

"My dear," she said in French, "what is it? Why these little smiles all afternoon whenever you forgot where you were?"

I couldn't help blushing. "I don't quite know, myself," I replied—and it was so.

"Oh, you cold, cold, cold Americans!"—then she paused and gave me one of her strange smiles, with her eyes elongated and her lips just parted—"I mean, you American women."

"Cold, because we don't set ourselves on fire?" I inquired.

"But yes," she answered, "yourselves, and the men, too. Never mind. I shall not peep into your little secret." She laughed. "It always chills me to grope round in one of your cold American women's hearts."

"I wish you could tell me what my secret is—and that's the plain truth," said I.

She laughed again, shrugged her shoulders, pinched my cheek, nodded her head until her big plumed hat was all in a quiver and was shaking out volumes of the strong, heavy perfume she uses. And without saying anything more she went away.

March 4. Cyrus and I sat next each other at dinner at the Secretary of War's to-night. It has happened several times this winter, as the precedence is often very difficult to arrange at small dinners. Old Alex Bartlett took me in, and as he's stone deaf and a monstrous eater I was free.

Cyrus had taken in a silent little girl who has just come out. She had exhausted her little line of prearranged conversation before the fish was taken away. So Cyrus talked to me.

"She's grateful for my letting her alone," said he when I tried to turn him back to his duty. "Besides, if I didn't meet you out once in a while you'd forget me entirely. And I don't want that, if I can avoid it."

"Thank you," said I, for lack of anything else to say, and with not the remotest intention of irritating him. But he flushed scarlet, and frowned.

"You always and deliberately misconstrue everything I say," said he bitterly. "I know I'm unfortunate in trying to express myself to you, but why do you never attribute to me anything but the worst intentions?"

"And why should you assume that every careless reply I make is a carefully thought out attack on you?" I retorted. "Don't you think your vanity makes you morbid?"

"You know perfectly well that it isn't vanity that makes me think you especially dislike me," said he.

"But I don't," I answered. "I confess I did at first, but not since I've come to know you better."

"Why did you dislike me at first?" he asked. "You began on me with almost the first moment of our acquaintance."

"That's true—I did," I admitted. "I had a reason for it—didn't Nadeshda tell you what it was?"

He looked frightened.

"Be frank, if you want me to be frank," said I.

"I never for an instant believed what she said," he replied abjectly. Then after a warning look from me, he added—"Really believed it, I mean."

"And what was it that you didn't really believe?" I demanded.

He looked at me boldly. "Nadeshda and one or two others told me that you and your friends had arranged it for me to marry you. But, of course, I knew it wasn't so."

"But it was so," I replied. "You were one of the considerations that determined my friends in trying to get me my place."

"Well—and why didn't you take me when I finally fell into the trap?"

I let him see I was laughing at him.

He scowled—his cowlick did look so funny that I longed to pull it. "Simply couldn't stand me—not even for the sake of what I brought," he said. And then he gave me a straight, searching look. "I wonder why I don't hate you," he went on. "I wonder why I am such an ass as to care for you. Yes—even if I knew you didn't care for me, still I'd want you. Can a man make a more degrading confession than that?"

"But why?" said I, very careful not to let him see how eagerly I longed to hear him say the words again. "Why should you want—me?"

He gave a very unpleasant laugh. "If you think I'm going to sit here and exhibit my feelings for your amusement you're going to be disappointed. It's none of your business why. Certainly not because I find anything sweet or amiable or even kind in you."

"That's rude," said I.

"It was intended to be," said he.

"Please—let's not quarrel now," said I coldly. "It gives me the headache to quarrel during dinner."

And he answered between his set teeth, "To quarrel with you—anywhere—gives me—the heartache, Gus."

I had no answer for that, nor should I have had the voice to utter it if I had had it. And then Mr. Bartlett began prosing to me about the Greeley-Grant campaign. And when the men came to join the women after dinner Cyrus went away almost immediately.

I am so happy to-night.

March 5. Cyrus came to me in my office to-day—as I had expected. But instead of looking woebegone and abject, he was radiant. He shut the door behind him. "You—guilty of cowardice," he began. "It isn't strange that I never suspected it."

"What do you mean?" I asked, not putting down my pen.

He came over and took it out of my fingers, then he took my fingers and kissed them, one by one. I was so astounded—and something else—that I made not the slightest resistance. "It's useless for you to cry out," he said, "for I've got the outer door well guarded."