II

December 6. Last Monday morning young Mr. Burke--Cyrus, the son and

heir--arrived, just from Germany. The first glimpse I had of him was as

he entered the house between his father and his mother, who had gone to

the station to meet him. I got myself out of the way and didn't come

down until "ma" Burke sent for me. I liked the way she was sitting

there beaming--but then, I like almost everything she does; she's such

a large, natural person. She never stands, except on her way to sit

just as soon as ever she can. "I never was a great hand for using my

feet," she said to me on my second day, "and I don't know but about

as much seems to 'a' come to find me as most people catch up with by

running their legs off." I liked the way her son was hovering about

her. And I liked the way "pa" Burke hovered round them both, nervous

and pulling at his whiskers and trying to think of things to say--if he

only wouldn't use brilliantine, or whatever it is, on his whiskers!

"Cyrus, this is my friend, Miss Talltowers," said Mrs. Burke. I smiled

and he clapped his heels together with a click and doubled up as if he

had a sudden pain in his middle, just like all the northern Continental

diplomats. When he straightened back to the normal I took a good look

at him--and he at me. I don't know--or, rather, didn't then know--what

_he_ thought. But I thought him--well, "common." He has a great big

body that's strong and well-proportioned; but his features are so

insignificant--a small mouth, a small nose, small ears, eyes, forehead,

small head. And there, in the very worst place--just where the part

ought to be--was the cowlick I'd noticed in his photograph. When he

began to speak I liked him still less. He's been at Berlin three years,

but still has his Harvard accent. I wonder why they teach men at

Harvard to use their lips in making words as a Miss Nancy sort of man

uses his fingers in doing fancy work?

Neither of us said anything memorable, and presently he went away to

his room, his mother going up with him. His father followed to the

foot of the stairs, then drifted away to his study where he could lie

in wait for Cyrus on his way down. Pretty soon his mother came into the

"office" they've given me--it's just off the drawing-room so that I can

be summoned to it the instant any one comes to see Mrs. Burke.

[Illustration: CLARENCE F. UNDERWOOD]

"I've let his pa have him for a while," she explained, as she came in.

I saw that she was full of her boy, so I turned away from my books.

She rambled on about him for an hour, not knowing what she was saying,

but just pouring out whatever came into her head. "His pa has always

said I'd spoil him," was one of the things I remember, "but I don't

think love ever spoiled anybody." Also she told me that his real

name wasn't Cyrus but Bucyrus, the town his father originally came

from--it's somewhere in Ohio, I think she said. "And," said she,

"whenever I want to cut his comb I just give him his name. He tames

right down." Also that he has used all sorts of things on the cowlick

without success. "There it is, still," said she, "as cross-grained as

ever. I like it about the best of anything, except maybe his long legs.

I'm a duck-leg myself, and his pa--well, _his_ legs 'just about reach

the ground,' as Lincoln said, and after that the less said the sooner

forgot. But Cyrus has _legs_. And his cowlick matches a cowlick in his

disposition--a kind of gnarly knot that you can't cut nor saw through

nor get round no way. It's been the saving of him, he's so good-natured

and easy otherwise." And she went on to tell how generous he is, "the

only generous small-eared person I've ever known, though I must say

I have my doubts about ears as a sign. There was Bill Slayback in our

town, with ears like a jack-rabbit, and whenever he had a poor man do a

job of work about his place he used to pay him with a ninety-day note

and then shave the note."

I was glad when she hurried away at the sound of Cyrus in the hall.

For a huge lot of work there'll be for me to do until I get things in

some sort of order. I've opened a regular set of books to keep the

social accounts in. Of course, nobody who goes in for society, on the

scale we're going into it, could get along without social bookkeeping

as big as a bank's. I pity the official women in the high places who

can't afford secretaries; they must spend hours every night posting and

fussing with their account-books when they ought to be in bed asleep.

On my second day here "pa" Burke explained what his plans were. "We

wish to make our house," said he, "the most distinguished social center

in Washington, next to the White House--and very democratic. Above all,

Miss Talltowers, democratic."

"He don't mean that he wants us to do our own work and send out the

wash," drawled "ma" Burke, who was sitting by. "But democratic, with

fourteen servants in livery."

"I understand," said I. "You wish simplicity, and people to feel at

ease, Mr. Burke."

"Exactly," he replied in a dubious tone. "But I wish to maintain

the--the dignities, as it were."

I saw he was afraid I might get the idea he wanted something like those

rough-and-tumble public maulings of the President that they have

at the White House. I hastened to reassure him; then I explained my

plan. I had drawn up a system somewhat like those the President's wife

and the Cabinet women and the other big entertainers have. I'm glad

the Burkes haven't any daughters. If they had I'd certainly need an

assistant. As it is, I'm afraid I'll worry myself hollow-eyed over my

books.

First, there's the Ledger--a real, big, thick office ledger with almost

four hundred accounts in it, each one indexed. Of course, there aren't

any entries as yet. But there soon will be--what we owe various people

in the way of entertainment, what they've paid, and what they owe us.

Second, there's my Day-Book. It contains each day's engagements so that

I can find out at a glance just what we've got to do, and can make out

each night before going to bed or early each morning the schedule for

Mrs. Burke for the day, and for Senator Burke and the son, I suppose,

for the late afternoon and the evening.

Third, there's the Calling-Book. Already I've got down more than

a thousand names. The obscurer the women are--the back-district

congressmen's wives and the like--the greater the necessity for keeping

the calling account straight. I wonder how many public men have had

their careers injured or ruined just because their wives didn't keep

the calling account straight. They say that _men_ forgive slights, and,

when it's to their interest, forget them. But I know the _women_ never

do. They keep the knife sharp and wait for a chance to stick it in,

for years and years. Of course, if the Burkes weren't going into this

business in a way that makes me think the Senator's looking for the

nomination for president I shouldn't be so elaborate. We'd pick out our

set and stick to it and ignore the other sets. As it is, I'm going to

do this thing thoroughly, as it hasn't been done before.

Fourth, there's our Ball-and-Big-Dinner Book. That's got a list of

all the young men and another of all the young women. And I'm making

notes against the names of those I don't know very well or don't know

at all--notes about their personal appearance, eligibility, capacities

for dancing, conversation, and so forth and so on. If you're going to

make an entertainment a success you've got to know something more or

less definite about the people that are coming, whom to ask to certain

things and whom not to ask. Take a man like Phil Harkness, or a girl

like Nell Witton, for example. Either of them would ruin a dinner, but

Phil shines at a ball, where silence and good steady dancing are what

the girls want. As for Nell, she's possible at a ball only if you can

be sure John Rush or somebody like him is coming--somebody to sit with

her and help her blink at the dancers and be bored. Then there's the

Sam Tremenger sort of man--a good talker, but something ruinous when

he turns loose in a ball-room and begins to batter the women's toilets

to bits. He's a dinner man, but you can't ask him when politics may be

discussed--he gets so violent that he not only talks all the time, but

makes a deafening clamor and uses swear words--and we still have quiet

people who get gooseflesh for damn.

Then there's--let me see, what number--oh, yes--fifth, there's my

Acceptance-and-Refusal Book. It's most necessary, both as a direct help

and as an indirect check on other books. Then, too, I want it to be

impossible to send the Burkes to places they've said they wouldn't go,

or for them to be out when they've asked people to come here. Those

things usually happen when you've asked some of those dreadful people

that everybody always forgets, yet that are sure to be important at

some critical time.

Sixth, there's my Book of Home Entertainments--a small book but most

necessary, as arranging entertainments in the packed days of the

Washington season isn't easy.

Seventh, there's the little book with the list of entertainments other

people are going to give. We have to have that so that we can know

how to make our plans. And in it I'm going to keep all the information

I can get about the engagements of the people we particularly want to

ask. If I'm not sharp-eyed about that I'll fail in one of my principal

duties, which is getting the right sort of people under this roof often

enough during the season to give us "distinction."

Eighth, there's my Distinguished-Stranger Book. I'm going to make that

a specialty. I want to try to know whenever anybody who is anybody

is here on a visit, so that we can get hold of him if possible. The

White House can get all that sort of information easily because the

distinguished stranger always gives the President a chance to get at

him. _We_ shall have to make an effort, but I think we'll succeed.

Ninth--that's my book for press notices. It's empty now, but I think

"pa" Burke will be satisfied long before the season is over.

Quite a library isn't it? How simple it must be to live in a city like

New York or Boston where one bothers only with the people of one set

and has practically no bookkeeping beyond a calling list. And here it's

getting worse and worse each season.

Let me see, how many sets are there? There's the set that can say

must to us--the White House and the Cabinet and the embassies. Then

there's the set we can say must to--a huge, big set and, in a way,

important, but there's nobody really important in it. Then there's the

still wider lower official set--such people as the under-secretaries

of departments, the attachés of embassies, small congressmen and the

like. Then there's the old Washington aristocracy--my particular crowd.

It doesn't amount to "shucks," as Mrs. Burke would say, but everybody

tries to be on good terms with it, Lord knows why. Finally, there's the

set of unofficial people--the rich or otherwise distinguished who live

in Washington and must be cultivated. And we're going to gather in all

of them, so as not to miss a trick.

The first one of the Burkes to whom I showed my books and explained

myself in full was "ma" Burke. She looked as if she had been taken with

a "misery," as she calls it. "Lord! Lord!" she groaned. "Whatever have

I got my fool self into?"

I laughed and assured her that it was nothing at all. "I'm only showing

you _my_ work. All you've got to do is to carry out each day's work.

I'll see to it that you won't even have to bother about what clothes to

wear, unless you want to. You'll be perfectly free to enjoy yourself."

"_Enjoy_ myself?" said she. "Why, I'll be on the jump from morning till

night."

"From morning till morning again," I corrected. "The men sleep

in Washington. But the women with social duties have no time for

sleep--only for naps."

"I reckon it'll hardly be worth while to undress for bed," she said

grimly. "I'm going to have the bed taken out of my room. It'd drive

me crazy to look at it. Such a good bed, too. I always was a great

hand for a good bed. I've often said to pa that you can't put too much

value into a bed--and by bed I don't mean headboard and footboard, nor

canopy nor any other fixings. What do you think of my hair?"