you use women in our diplomacy?"

Calhoun now was no longer the friend, the humanitarian. He was the
relentless machine; the idea; the single purpose, which to the world at
large he had been all his life in Congress, in cabinets, on this or the
other side of the throne of American power. He spoke coldly as he went
on:

"In these matters it is not a question of means, but of results. If war
comes, let it come; although I hope it will not come. As to the use of
women--tell me, _why not women?_ Why anything _else_ but women? It is
only playing life against life; one variant against another. That is
politics, my friend. I _want_ Pakenham. So, I must learn what _Pakenham_
wants! Does he want Texas for England, or the Baroness von Ritz _for
himself?_"

Ward still sat and looked at him. "My God!" said he at last, softly; but
Calhoun went on:

"Why, who has made the maps of the world, and who has written pages in
its history? Who makes and unmakes cities and empires and republics
to-day? _Woman_, and not man! Are you so ignorant--and you a physician,
who know them both? Gad, man, you do not understand your own profession,
and yet you seek to counsel me in mine!"

"Strange words from you, John," commented his friend, shaking his head;
"not seemly for a man who stands where you stand to-day."

"Strange weapons--yes. If I could always use my old weapons of tongue
and brain, I would not need these, perhaps. Now you tell me my time is