January 24. The whole town is in a tumult over Robert and Nadeshda. People think she's crazy. When Cyrus said this to me I said: "And I think they are—at least, delirious."

"A divine delirium, though," he replied, much to my astonishment. For he's never shown before that he had so much as a spot of that sort of thing in him. But then, I'm beginning to revise my judgment of him in some ways. He is much nearer what his mother said he was than what I thought him. But he's young and crude. I find that he likes—and really appreciates—the same composers and poets and novelists that I do. I can forgive much to any one who realizes what a poet Browning was—when he did write poetry, not when he wrote the stuff for the Browning clubs to fuddle with.

Nadeshda is in the depths—except when Robert is by to hypnotize her. "I was so strong," she said pathetically to me to-day, "or I thought I was. And now I'm all weakness." She went on to tell me how horribly they are talking to her at the embassy—for they are determined she shan't marry "that nobody with nothing." I always knew her brother-in-law was a snob of the cheapest and narrowest kind—the well-born, well-bred kind. But I had no idea he was a coward. He threatens to have the Emperor make her come home and go into a convent if she doesn't break off the engagement within a week.

We are tremendously popular. Everybody is cultivating us, hoping to find out the real inside of this incredible engagement. And the ambassador has to pretend publicly that he's personally wild with delight and hopes Nadeshda's parents will consent. He knows how unpopular it would make him and his country with America if his opposition and his reason for it were to be known.

January 30. Nadeshda has disappeared. They give out at the embassy that she has left for home to consult with her parents. Robert looks like a man who had gone stark mad and was fighting to keep himself from showing it.

We were all at the ball at the French embassy, Mr. and Mrs. Burke dining there. I dined at the White House—a literary affair. The conversation was what you might expect when a lot of people get together to show one another how brilliant they are. The President talked a great deal. He has very positive opinions on literature in all its branches. I was the only person at the table who wasn't familiar with his books. Fortunately, I wasn't cornered. Cyrus came to the ball from Mrs. Dorringer's, where he took in the Duchess d'Emarre. "She has a beautiful face in repose," he said to me as he paused for a moment, "and it's not at all pretty when she talks. So she listened well."

I was too tired to dance, as were the others. We went home together, all depressed. "It's too ridiculous, this kind of life," said "ma" Burke, "and the most ridiculous part of it is that, now we're hauled into it and set a-going, we'll never get out and be sensible again. It just shows you can get used to anything in this world—except doing as you please. I don't believe anybody was ever satisfied to do that. Did you ever wear a Mother Hubbard? There's comfort!"

I can think of nothing but Robert and Nadeshda. Have they some sort of understanding? No—I'm afraid not.

I forgot to put down that Robert made the Senator go to the Secretary of State about Nadeshda's disappearance. The Secretary was sympathetic, but he refused to interfere in any way. What else could he do?