Since I began to write this letter, Lord Cowdray came here to the house and stayed two and a half hours, talking about possible joint intervention in Mexico.  Possibly he came from the Foreign Office.  I don’t know whether to dare send a despatch to the State Department, telling what he told me, for fear they’d leak.  And to leak this—­Good Lord!  Two of the Secretaries were here to dinner, and I asked them if I should send such a despatch.  They both answered instantly:  “No, sir, don’t dare:  write it to the President.”  I said:  “No, I have no right to bother the President with regular business nor with frequent letters.”  To that they agreed; but the interesting and somewhat appalling thing is, they’re actually afraid to have a confidential despatch go to the State Department.

I see nothing to do but to suggest to the President to put somebody in the Department who will stay there and give intelligent attention to the diplomatic telegrams and letters—­some conscientious assistant or clerk.  For I hear mutterings, somewhat like these mutterings of mine, from some of the continental embassies.—­The whole thing is disorganizing and demoralizing beyond description.

     All these and more are my troubles.  I’ll take care of them.  But
     remember what I am going to write on the next sheet.  For here may
     come a trouble for you:

Mrs. Page has learned something more about Secretary Bryan’s proposed visit here in the spring.  He’s coming to talk his peace plan which, you know, is a sort of grape-juice arbitration—­a distinct step backward from a real arbitration treaty.  Well, if he comes with that, when you come to talk about reducing armaments, you’ll wish you’d never been born.  Get your ingenuity together, then, and prevent that visit[41].

Not the least funny thing in the world is—­Senator X turned up to-day.  As he danced around the room begging everybody’s pardon (nobody knew what for) he complimented everybody in sight, explained the forged letter, dilated on state politics, set the Irish question on the right end, cleared Bacon[42] of all hostility to me, declined tea because he had insomnia and explained just how it works to keep you awake, danced more and declared himself happy and bowed himself out—­well pleased.  He’s as funny a cuss as I’ve seen in many a day.  Lord Cowdray, who was telling Mexican woes to Katharine in the corner, looked up and asked, “Who’s the little dancing gentleman?” Suppose X had known he was dancing for—­Lord Cowdray’s amusement, what do y’ suppose he’d’ve thought?  There are some strange combinations in our house on Mrs. Page’s days at home.  Cowdray has, I am sure, lost (that is, failed to make) a hundred million dollars that he had within easy reach by this Wilson Doctrine, but he’s game.  He doesn’t lie awake.  He’s a dead-game sport, and he knows he’s