We came here for the Sunday and it was raining when we arrived—­after an odious train journey.  Tom’s valet and both the maids are perfectly at sea as yet, and while burning with rage over the lack of, and indifference of, the porters, are too scornfully haughty to adapt themselves to circumstances; so they still bring unnecessary hand luggage and argue with the conductor.  We made a mistake in the train and there was no Pullman, so that means there is only one class.  It really is so quaint.  Mamma, having to travel as if it were third.  It amused me immensely, two people on a seat on either side and an aisle through the middle down which the ticket collector walks, and for most of the journey a child raced backwards and forwards, jumping with sticky hands clinging to the sides of each seat while it sucked candy.  The mother screeched, “Say, Willie, if you don’t quit that game, I’ll tell your pa when we get home!” However, Willie shouted, “You bet,” and paid not the least attention!

Nearly everywhere where you have to come in contact with people in an obviously inferior or menial position, manners don’t exist.  They seem to think they can demonstrate their equality, if not superiority, by being as rude as possible.  Of course if they were really the ladies and gentlemen they are trying to prove they are, they would be courteous and gentle.  The attitude is, “I’m as good as you, indeed better!” Either you are a gentleman or woman, aren’t you, Mamma? and you do not have to demonstrate it, everyone can see it; or you are not, and no amount of your own assertion that you are will make anyone believe you.  So, of what use to be rude, or clamour, or boast?  Doesn’t it make you laugh, Mamma?  Though it surprises me here because as a people they are certainly more intelligent than any other people on earth, and one would have thought they would have seen how futile and funny that side of them is.

The talk of equality is just as much nonsense in America as in every other place under the sun.  How can people be called equal when the Browns won’t know the Smiths!  And the Van Brounckers won’t know either, and Fifth Avenue does not bow to the West Side, and everyone is striving to “go one better” than his neighbour.

Station is as strictly defined as in England, where the village grocer’s daughter at Valmond no longer could speak to a school friend, a little general servant who came to fetch treacle at the shop, when Pappa Grocer bought a piano!  So you see, Mamma, it is in human nature, whether you are English or American, if you haven’t a sense of humour.  I suppose you have to be up where we are for it all to seem nonsense and not to matter; and, who knows?  If there were another grade beyond us we might be just the same, too; but it is trash to talk of equality.  Even a Socialist leader thinks himself above the crowd—­and is, too, though I should imagine that the American middle and lower classes would assert they have no equal but God—­if they don’t actually look down on Him.