I replied that the proposition meant to me that I should simply be selling myself and buying her daughter, and that I declined to accept it. ("Oh, Charlotte!" the girl interrupted with a catch in her throat, "don't you think that was splendid and clever, too?") Your mother said that she wished to take the matter into consideration during your absence [so the letter ran on], and just as we were rising the Philadelphia aunt came in from one door and General X, Senator Y, and Lord Z from another. They are at the moment three of the most significant figures in the moving picture of Washington society, and all women pursue them. They beamed at me as if they had been commandeered for that special purpose, and Senator Y said jovially: "How are you, Duke? Glad to see you. Are you free to dine with us?" I hastily turned to your mother, saying: "I was just going to ask you and your sister if you would dine with me." Lord Z, who was at Balliol with me, you remember, said: "Then perhaps you will allow us to come to your table for coffee, Hogg?" Your mother gazed at him, astounded that his noble tongue could utter the name. Then she actually and gracefully "fell" for the dinner, lured by the bait of the post-prandial coffee with the distinguished trio, and the Philadelphia aunt kept things going serenely. She is a delightful person and will be a perfect companion for your mother when--you know when--when she needs one--and I no longer do! ("There never was a man who said things like Duke!" interpolated Dolly ecstatically.) All would have gone swimmingly to the end had not a page suddenly entered the room bawling: "Mr. Hogg wanted at the telephone: Mr. Hogg? Telephone message for Mr. HOGG!" Only capitals can give an idea of the volume of voice. My ear-drum, grown painfully sensitive since I met your mother, echoed and reechoed with the tone as I threaded my way through the crowded room, followed by every eye, while I imagined people saying: "I wonder if he's called to the stockyard?" (It is queer, but I never felt this way in Oxford, for they still remember Hogg, the Scottish poet, and I hung myself to his revered coat-tails.) The telephone message was from my secretary, and healed my wounded vanity, for it came from the British Embassy conveying the thanks of the Foreign Office for Mr. Hogg's friendly and helpful action in conducting negotiations for the chartering of ex-enemy ships lying in South American ports. ("You see what he is!" exclaimed Dolly, looking up from the letter with eyes full of unshed tears! "Of course he has five or six superiors in office but I suppose really that Duke's extraordinary talent keeps that whole shipping board going! You mark my words, Charlotte, when Duke gives up his position and goes to Plattsburg there'll be an absolute slump in that office! But just hear what follows; it is so discouraging!")