Of course, there are exceptions. Take Maggie Shotwell. Her husband is a wag-eared ass. Yet in eleven years she has advanced him from second secretary to minister to a second-class power just by showing up here at intervals and playing the game intelligently. And there are scores of army women who do as well in a smaller way, and a few of the diplomats' wives are most adroit, intriguing well both here and at their homes in a nice, clean way, as intrigue goes. But most of the women are like "ma" Burke, who'd as soon think of entering for a foot-race as of interfering in her husband's political affairs in any way, beyond giving him some sound advice about the men that can be trusted and the men that can't. I suppose if there were real careers in public life in this country, not dependent upon elections, the Washington women wouldn't be so lazy and indifferent, but would wake up and intrigue their brothers and sons and other male relatives into all sorts of things. Then, too, a man has to vote with his "party" on everything that's important, and his "party" is a small group of old men who are beyond social blandishments and go to bed early every night and associate only with men in the daytime. No, we women don't amount to much _directly_ at Washington. If Jim Lafollette had kept away from the women and society he might have amounted to something. It's become a proverb that whenever a young man comes here and goes in for the social end of it he is doomed soon to disappear and be heard of no more. The President is trying to make society amount to something, but he won't succeed. Whatever benefit there may be in it will go, not to him, but to men like Senator Burke. He doesn't go any more than he can help, except to his own breakfasts. But he sends his wife, and so, without wasting any of his time, he makes himself prominent in a very short space of time and gets all the big social indirect influence--the influence of the women on their husbands. Mrs. Burke's younger brother, Robert Gunton, arrived last night. He reminds me of her, but he's slender and very active--a shabby sort of person, clean but careless, and he looks as if he had so many other things to think about that he hadn't time to think about himself. He looks younger and talks older than his years. He's here to get some sort of patent through; he won't permit his brother-in-law to assist him; he refuses to go anywhere--in society, I mean. We rode up to the Capitol together in a street-car this morning, and I liked him. "Why do you ride in a street-car?" he asked. "Because it's not considered good form to use carriages too much," I replied. "It might rouse the envy of those who can't afford carriages." "Then it isn't because you don't want to, but because you don't dare to?" "Yes," said I. "But things are changing rapidly. The rich people who live here but care nothing for politics are gradually introducing class distinctions."