In the name of the women of Hungary we made a last attempt to-day to unite the adherents of law and order. The leaders gathered at my house: we all realised that this was our last chance. And when at length, after long discussions, we women were left to ourselves, all we could do was to sum up our efforts in the words: “we have failed again!” Before going to bed the housekeeper brought her account books to my mother. She fixed her inquisitive eyes on me and said: “You look tired, miss. You’ve had so many visitors to-day! Perhaps it was an important meeting?...” Instinctively I answered: “We discussed whether it would be possible to have the children’s festival this year.” And then straight out, in self-defence, I asked: “Your fiancé, he is Pogány’s chauffeur, isn’t he?” She was taken aback by my sudden question and gave herself away: “He carries Pogány sometimes, sometimes Böhm.” That was just what I wanted to know. * * * * * _March 13th._ Many people are stopping at the street corner, where a new poster is shrieking from the walls. It represents a giant workman bending over the Hungarian Parliament, at his feet a bucket of paint, and with a dripping brush he is painting the mighty mass of granite, which is our House of Parliament, red. Above the picture is the appeal ‘Vote for the Social Democratic party.’ The everlasting pile of stones, and—red paint.... That sums it up completely—even more than was intended. The other day we stuck up our tiny poster. It was a map of Hungary: on a white field the green frontiers, and above, in red letters; ‘National Association of Hungarian Women.’ _They_ are free to cover the walls with yard-long posters: ours was no bigger than a hand and took up little enough room, yet they could not tolerate it. I saw a little boy tearing them off. “Why do you do that, sonny? It does not hurt you.” “I get twenty crowns a day to tear down those in national colours.” All around us foreign invaders are tearing our country to bits with impunity. In the capital, hired little Hungarian boys destroy its image. The future lacerating itself. * * * * * _March 14th._