he day. But we generally meet at least two or three times
a week on the stairs or in the hall as we are going out. Sometimes,
also, I see my son at this time.

It will be observed that our family life is not burdensome to any of
us:--not that we do not wish to see one another, but we are too busy to
do so. My daughters seem to be fond of me. They are proud of my success
and their own position; in fact they go out in the smartest circles.
They are smarter, indeed, than their mother and myself; for, though we
know everybody in society, we have never formed a part of the intimate
inner Newport circle. But my daughters are inside and in the very center
of the ring. You can read their names as present at every smart function
that takes place.

From Friday until Monday they are always in the country at week-end
parties. They are invited to go to Bermuda, Palm Beach, California,
Aiken and the Glacier National Park. They live on yachts and in private
cars and automobiles. They know all the patter of society and everything
about everybody. They also talk surprisingly well about art, music and
international politics. They are as much at home in Rome, Paris and
London as they are in New York, and are as familiar with Scotland as
Long Island. They constantly amaze me by the apparent scope of their
information.

They are women of the world in a sense unheard of by my father's
generation. They have been presented at court in London, Berlin and
Rome, and have had a social season at Cairo; in fact I feel at a great
personal disadvantage in talking with them. They are respectful, very
sweet in a self-controlled and capable sort of way, and, so far as I can
see, need no assistance in looking out for themselves. They seem to be
quite satisfied with their mode of life. They do as they choose, and ask
for no advice from either their mother or myself.

My boy also leads his own life. He is rarely at home except to sleep. I
see less of him than of my daughters. During the day he is at the
office, where he is learning to be a lawyer. At wide intervals we lunch
together; but I find that he is interested in things which do not appeal
to me at all. Just at present he has become an expert--almost a
professional--dancer to syncopated music. I hear of him as dancing for
charity at public entertainments, and he is in continual demand for
private theatricals and parties. He is astonishingly clever at it.

Yet I cannot imagine Daniel Webster or Ru