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, blase 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 representative wags a huge, blond beard; and yonder is the phlegmatic German ambassador.  Scattered around the table, brilliant splotches of color, are the uniformed envoys of the Orient—­the smaller the country the more brilliant the splotch.  It is a state dinner, to be followed by a state ball, and they are all present.

The Italian ambassador, Count di Rosini, was trying to interpret a French bon mot into English for the benefit of the dainty, doll-like wife of the Chinese minister—­who was educated at Radcliffe—­when a servant leaned over him and laid a sealed envelope beside his plate.  The count glanced around at the servant, excused himself to Mrs. Quong Li Wi, and opened the envelope.  Inside was a single sheet of embassy note paper, and a terse line signed by his secretary: 

“A lady is waiting for you here.  She says she must see you immediately, on a matter of the greatest importance.”

The count read the note twice, with wrinkled brow, then scribbled on it in pencil: 

“Impossible to-night.  Tell her to call at the embassy to-morrow morning at half-past ten o’clock.”

He folded the note, handed it to the servant, and resumed his conversation with Mrs. Wi.

Half an hour later the same servant placed a second sealed envelope beside his plate.  Recognizing the superscription, the ambassador impatiently shoved it aside, intending to disregard it.  But irritated curiosity finally triumphed, and he opened it.  A white card on which was written this command was his reward: