Then she asked me to look round the table and to tell her if I had ever seen a better looking set of women, and of course I had not; they were really charming and so exquisitely dressed, and the apparently most aristocratic of all she told me was the daughter of a Western miner and an English housemaid!  And she even had a soft, sweet voice.  I talked to her afterwards.  Is it not too wonderful to think of what such parentage would make English people look!  It must be climate and that splendid go ahead vitality—­whatever it is, I do admire it.  And as Mrs. Van Brounker-Courtfield seemed so human and not touchy I asked her why a number of the New York men did not appear to have caught the same appearance of wonderful refinement and breeding, and she said because the sort of life a man leads makes him look what he does far more than blood, and that the few that lived the life of English gentlemen looked like them, just as the rest who live the life of our city clerks look like them, minus our City clerks’ Saturday interest in sport, and plus the cocktail.  And this must be true, Mamma, because Mr. Renour, who was what all these people would call a rough Westerner, and would probably not speak to (until he became a trillionaire of course) was a nature’s gentleman and looked out-door and hard; and if he had been dressed by Mr. Davis, and his hair cut by Mr. Charles, would have been as good looking as anyone in the world.

These “reasons why” do interest me so much, and I am always collecting them.  But I must get back to what happened at lunch.  I heard it from Octavia afterwards, who made a fearful betise.

We had met the new Mrs. Busfield the day before but had not been told a word of the story, so Octavia being vaguely aware that there were two brothers Busfield, thought this one, who for the sake of non-confusion I must speak of as “Julia,” was the other brother’s wife, and to be amiable told her how charming she thought “Arma” (the new wife) was, and how awfully devoted the husband seemed, and were they not very proud to have such a perfect beauty in the family!

“Julia” got crimson and coughed, and then the lady from the other side joined in telling Octavia that “Arma” was her sister-in-law, but no relation to this Mrs. Busfield!  Octavia, of course, turned the conversation and spoke to the hostess, but she said the two beside her, in spite of not being on speaking terms chatted feverishly to each other for the rest of lunch to avoid pauses, in case, Octavia supposes, she should ask any more difficult questions.  So you see, Mamma, even a person with as fine perceptions as Octavia can make awkward betises here.  It is like steering among the Thousand Islands and hidden rocks and currents.

Mrs. Van B.-C.’s (the name is really too long to go on writing) house is perfectly awful.  She told us so before we could even formulate the thought ourselves!  It was done up about fourteen years ago, she said, when it was one of the first houses as high up on Fifth Avenue, and was the time of the most appalling taste in decoration.  Every sort of gilding and dreadful Louis XV., and gorged cupids sitting on cannon ball clouds, with here and there a good picture and bit of china, and crimson brocade edged with plush for curtains!