"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.
"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.