She said to-day that I was "just cut out" for a successful diplomat; that I am so sincere and straightforward in my manner that I am the last person on earth to suspect. She says it will be my "trump card" when I know how to play it.
I presume I am lacking in fine appreciation, but in some way this seemed to cheapen sincerity. It does not, of course, for of all women in the world, Gladys would be the last to endure cheap sentiment or cheap lace. Of all the spotless, high-bred, delicate, forcible women I have ever seen, she is the most so.
I blushed to think of the cold contempt she would feel for me should she even know that I had heard such a proposition. I represented to her a case like mine, as though it were something I had heard of, and asked her what she could think of such a thing. Her haughty indignation was superb, inspiring. It did me good. I feel just so myself. I wanted to blush for even having made Mr. Everet go there the other night.
Well, nothing else of any account happened to-day.
I met Mrs. Stevens and looked the other way, at the pug of the wife of the Secretary of the Navy. It is so strange that she has no better taste than to wear a blue gown with a brown dog.
I chatted a moment with Senator Stacy's wife, and told her that her second child was a picture—(it is—of ugliness). I felt it a duty to say this, however, as the only thing false about it was the impression it conveyed to her—and the Senator's good will is quite necessary to Edgar's plans.
Then I went to the Talbots', and wound up with the Farringtons' reception.
And now, thank heaven, I am going to bed, and Edgar will be at home in the morning. I shall go nowhere to-morrow night, for he will be glad to have me at home—unless he should treat me coldly. I won't even think of that.