Quite a library isn't it? How simple it must be to live in a city like New York or Boston where one bothers only with the people of one set and has practically no bookkeeping beyond a calling list. And here it's getting worse and worse each season. Let me see, how many sets are there? There's the set that can say must to us--the White House and the Cabinet and the embassies. Then there's the set we can say must to--a huge, big set and, in a way, important, but there's nobody really important in it. Then there's the still wider lower official set--such people as the under-secretaries of departments, the attachés of embassies, small congressmen and the like. Then there's the old Washington aristocracy--my particular crowd. It doesn't amount to "shucks," as Mrs. Burke would say, but everybody tries to be on good terms with it, Lord knows why. Finally, there's the set of unofficial people--the rich or otherwise distinguished who live in Washington and must be cultivated. And we're going to gather in all of them, so as not to miss a trick. The first one of the Burkes to whom I showed my books and explained myself in full was "ma" Burke. She looked as if she had been taken with a "misery," as she calls it. "Lord! Lord!" she groaned. "Whatever have I got my fool self into?" I laughed and assured her that it was nothing at all. "I'm only showing you _my_ work. All you've got to do is to carry out each day's work. I'll see to it that you won't even have to bother about what clothes to wear, unless you want to. You'll be perfectly free to enjoy yourself." "_Enjoy_ myself?" said she. "Why, I'll be on the jump from morning till night." "From morning till morning again," I corrected. "The men sleep in Washington. But the women with social duties have no time for sleep--only for naps." "I reckon it'll hardly be worth while to undress for bed," she said grimly. "I'm going to have the bed taken out of my room. It'd drive me crazy to look at it. Such a good bed, too. I always was a great hand for a good bed. I've often said to pa that you can't put too much value into a bed--and by bed I don't mean headboard and footboard, nor canopy nor any other fixings. What do you think of my hair?" I was a bit startled by her sudden change of subject. I waited. "Don't mind me--speak right out," she said with her good-natured twinkle. "You might think it wasn't my hair, but it is. The color's not, though, as you may be surprised to hear." The "surprised" was broadly satirical. "I prefer natural hair," said I, "and gray hair is most becoming. It makes a woman look younger, not older." "That's sensible," said she. "I never did care for bottled hair. I think it looks bad from the set-off, and gets worse. The widow Pfizer in our town got so that hers was bright green after she bottled it for two years, trying to catch old man Coakley. And after she caught him she bottled his, and it turned out green, too, after a while."