A ladies’ lunch is like this:  Octavia and I arrive at a gorgeous mansion, and are ushered into a marvellous Louis XV. morning room, with wonderful tapestry furniture and beautiful pictures arranged rather like a museum.  There is never a look of the mistress of the house having settled anything herself, or chosen a pillow because the colours in a certain sofa required it; or, in fact, there is never the expression of any individuality of ownership; anyone could have just such another house if he or she were rich enough to give carte blanche to the best antique art shop; but the things all being really good and beautiful do not jar like the mixture at the Spleists did.  Often whole rooms have been brought out, just as they were, from foreign palaces, panelling, pictures and all, and it gives such a quaint sense of unreality to feel the old atmosphere in this young, vigorous country.  The hostess’s bedroom and boudoir and bath room are often shown to us, and they are all masterpieces of decoration and luxury; and I can’t think how they can keep on feeling as good as gold in them!  Perfectly lovely luxurious surroundings always make me long for Harry to play with, or some other nice young man—­did not they you, Mamma, when you were young and felt things?

About twenty other women are probably there besides us, all dressed in the most expensive magnificent afternoon frocks; and they all have lovely Cartier jewelled watches, and those beautiful black ribbon and diamond chains round their necks, like Harry gave me last birthday.  No one wears old fashioned or ugly jewels, all are in exquisite taste, while the pearls at one lunch would have paid for a kingdom.

When everyone has been presented to us, being the strangers, luncheon is announced, and we go into a magnificent dining-room, sometimes with the blinds so much drawn that we have to have electric lights.  The footmen are in full dress, with silk stockings, and one or two places they had them powdered, and that did make Octavia smile.  I don’t think one ought to have powder unless it has been the custom of the family for generations, do you, Mamma?  Well, then, beside each person’s plate, beyond the countless food implements lying on the lace-encrusted cloth, are lovely bunches of orchids, or whatever is the most rare and difficult to get; and cocktails have sometimes been handed in the salon before, and sometimes are handed in the dining-room, but at the ladies’ lunches in very small glasses.

With such heaps of divorces, in a very large party you can’t help having some what Mrs. Van Brounker-Courtfield (a perfect old darling of nearly eighty whom we lunched with on Wednesday) calls “court relations,” together; by that meaning, supposing Mrs. A. has divorced Mr. A., and re-married Mr. B., who has been divorced by Mrs. B., who has re-married Mr. C., who happened to be a widower with grown up married daughters—­then the daughters and the present Mrs. B., late Mrs. A.,