I

MISS ISABEL THORNE


All the world rubs elbows in Washington. Outwardly it is merely a city
of evasion, of conventionalities, sated with the commonplace pleasures
of life, listless, blasé even, and always exquisitely, albeit frigidly,
courteous; but beneath the still, suave surface strange currents play at
cross purposes, intrigue is endless, and the merciless war of diplomacy
goes on unceasingly. Occasionally, only occasionally, a bubble comes to
the surface, and when it bursts the echo goes crashing around the earth.
Sometimes a dynasty is shaken, a nation trembles, a ministry topples
over; but the ripple moves and all is placid again. No man may know all
that happens there, for then he would be diplomatic master of the
world.

"There is plenty of red blood in Washington," remarked a jesting
legislative gray-beard, once upon a time, "but it's always frozen before
they put it in circulation. Diplomatic negotiations are conducted in the
drawing-room, but long before that the fight is fought down cellar. The
diplomatists meet at table and there isn't any broken crockery, but you
can always tell what the player thinks of the dealer by the way he draws
three cards. Everybody is after results; and lots of monarchs of Europe
sit up nights polishing their crowns waiting for word from Washington."

So, this is Washington! And here at dinner are the diplomatic
representatives of all the nations. That is the British ambassador, that
stolid-faced, distinguished-looking, elderly man; and this is the French
ambassador, dapper, volatile, plus-correct; here Russia's highest