The house is simply charming; outside a beautiful colonial style, so suitable to the splendid trees and general look of the land, and inside all panelled, and everything in the most perfect taste, and not too grand.  But it surprises me that Valerie, who has been so much in England, should still have the same want of the personal note in her house.  Everything is beyond criticism, so perfect and suitable, but not in a single room, even her own sitting room, is there that strong sense of her as I think we all have in our rooms at home.  I am sure, Mamma, you would know even the great state drawing-rooms at Chevenix were Octavia’s, and there is not a corner of Valmond or Hurstbridge or even the town house, that I do not decide upon the arranging of.  But here I don’t think they would be bothered; and they only stay in their houses for so short a period, rushing from New York to Newport and the country to Europe, so none of the places feel like home.  That is the only possible thing which spoils this one,—­otherwise it is perfection.  But then you see they could start fair by building it themselves; they had not to inherit a huge castle from their forefathers, with difficult drains to combat and an insufficient water supply, to say nothing of the trail of the serpent of fearful early Victorian taste over even the best things of the eighteenth century.  The horrors that now live in the housemaids’ bed rooms which I collected from the royal suite at Valmond!

It was a perfect joy to get here into peace, and we were allowed to rest quietly until dinner, and Valerie came and talked to me while I lay on the sofa.  She said her husband was “crazy” about me, and she thought it would do him a great deal of good for me to play with him a little, and that she was crazy about Tom; so I said if she could find someone for Octavia it seemed a nice little chasse croisee and we ought all to be very happy together.  Then she said she had someone coming down by a later train who ought to be just Octavia’s affair, and who in the world do you think it is, Mamma?  The Vicomte!  Gaston de la Tremors!!!!

Think of what Harry will say when he hears!  Isn’t it too lovely?  He will of course believe I made a rendezvous with him, considering the furious rage he was in when I got the Vicomte’s letter.  You remember, Mamma, he used to be in love with me at the Chateau de Croixmare, and always has been a red rag to a bull for Harry.  When we met him by chance at Monte Carlo last year, the first time since my marriage, there was nearly a scene; and, as you know, his simple letter saying he would be in London, and might he see me, was the cause of Harry’s and my quarrel.  So now, when he finds poor Gaston is out here, he will be foaming with rage, and will of course come back from Africa at once, and probably beat me and shoot the Vicomte; so I had better have a little fun while I can.  It has sent my spirits up to the skies; and I am so glad Agnes brought my loveliest garments here.  You need not worry about me, Mamma, as I am sure you are beginning to!  I really will be as good as gold, but I must amuse myself a little in this my only chance.  I took such care dressing for dinner, and wore no jewels, because everyone here has such wonderful ones.  And when I was going down the stairs I felt quite excited.