When one looks down at the audience, the women not being in evening dress gives the coup d’oeil a less festive note, but I think people in theatres look perfectly awful anywhere, don’t you, Mamma?  One wonders where they come from.

This was a play about “Graft,” which as far as I can understand means,—­supposing you wanted to be elected a member of the Government, you could agree with some large contractor, who had influence over countless votes, to get the order for him to put up a public building which millions had been voted for; and instead of making it of solid marble, to face it and fill it up with rubbish, and you and he would pocket the difference.  I think that would be “graft,” and there seems to a lot of it about, judging from the play and the papers; and we were told some of the splendid buildings in San Francisco showed all these tricks when they fell down in the earthquake.  I should hate to live in an earthquake country, shouldn’t you, Mamma?  It could interrupt one in such awkward or agreeable moments,—­and one would feel one ought to be ready and looking as attractive as possible all the time.  It would be so wearing.

I think English people are stodgy and behind-hand about things.  Why don’t they come here and take a few hints before they build any more theatres?  You can’t think how infinitely better these are to see in.

The difference in the comic operas to ours is, they have no refinement or colours or subtleties to please the eye—­all is gaudy and blatant.  The “Merry Widow,” for instance, could make one weep, it is so vulgar and changed, especially the end.  But if the people prefer it like that the managers are quite right to let them have what they want.

After the theatre we went, a huge party, to sup at such a funny place which was all mirrors; and a man at the next table, who was perhaps a little beyond “fresh,” got perfectly furious thinking another man was staring at him, and wanted to get up and fight him.  The lady next him pulled his sleeve, and had to keep telling him, “Hush, Bob, hush!  Can’t you see it’s yourself?” “Certainly not!” shouted the man, so loud we could not help hearing.  “I’ll fight anyone who says I am that ugly mug!” and he gesticulated at the reflection and it gesticulated back at him.  It was the funniest sight you can imagine, Mamma, and it was not until the lady meekly demanded if the person he saw sitting by the “ugly mug” resembled her that he could be convinced, and be got to go on quietly with his supper.  And all the rest of the time he kept glancing at the glass and muttering to himself like distant thunder, just as Agnes does when things displease her.