While it was going on, my new gown lay glittering on the bed, where the maid had placed it, and I was very anxious to get into it. It had given me several days of awful worry. It was made in New York and the dressmaker had promised that I should have it at least a week before it was needed so that any necessary changes could easily be made. But day after day went by and no dress⁠—the third of March arrived and then I began, frantically, to telegraph. I finally received the reassuring advice that the dress was on its way in the hands of a special messenger, but the special messenger was, with many other people, held up for hours by the blizzard and did not arrive at the Boardmans’ until after I had left for the White House, wondering, disconsolately, what on earth I should wear to the Inaugural Ball if it happened that the messenger couldn’t get there at all. The suspense had been fearful and it was a comfortable relief to see the gown all spread out and waiting for me.

It was made of heavy white satin which I had sent to Tokyo to have embroidered, and the people who did the work surely knew their art. A pattern of goldenrod was outlined by a silver thread and cleverly fitted into the long lines of the gown, and no other trimming had been used except some lace with which the low-cut bodice was finished. It fitted me admirably and I hoped that, in spite of all the mishaps in my preparations, I looked my best as I descended from the White House automobile at the entrance of the Pension Office.