The Spleists had a young people’s tea last week, which I have not had time to tell you of, where they did all this.  They flung themselves about, and were as natural and tiresome as baby puppies are, barking and bouncing and eating up people’s shoes.

Fancy, Mamma, when Ermyntrude grows up, my allowing her to pour water down a man’s neck, and to be mauled and fought with in consequence!  But I am sure they are all as innocent and lighthearted as the young puppies whose behaviour theirs resembles; so it may be a natural outlet for high spirits, and have its good side, though we could not possibly stand it.

The whole tenue in moving, of the girls, is “fling about,” even in the street, but no other nation can compare to them in their exquisitely spruce, exquisitely soigne appearance, and their perfect feet and superlatively perfect boots, and short tailor dresses.  To see Fifth Avenue on a bright day, morning or afternoon, is like a procession of glowing flowers passing.  Minxes of fifteen with merry roving eyes, women of all ages, all as beautifully dressed as it is possible to be, swinging along to the soda-water fountain shops where you can get candy and ice cream and lovely chocolates.  No one has that draggled, too long in the back and too short in the front look, of lots of English women holding up their garments in a frightful fashion.  Here they are too sensible; they have perfect short skirts for walking, and look too dainty and attractive for words.  Also there are no old people much—­a few old women but never any old men.  I suppose they all die off with their hard life.

But isn’t human nature funny, Mamma, and how male creatures’ instincts will break out sometimes even in a country like this, where sex does not “amount to much.”  We are told that now and then the most respectable father of a family will “side track,” and go off on a jaunt with a glaringly golden-haired chorus lady!  But one thing is better than with us, the eldest sons don’t defy fate and marry them!  When he gets to fifteen I shall begin to have nightmares in case Hurstbridge should bring me home a Gaiety daughter-in-law, though probably by then there will be such numbers of Birdie and Tottie and Rosie Peeresses, that I shall have got used to it, unless, of course, the fashion changes and goes back to the time Uncle Geoffrey talks of, when those ladies found their own world more amusing.

There is not much romance here.  I don’t see how they ever get in love.  How could one get in love with a young man whom one romped with and danced with, till his face became dripping, and his collar limp; whom one saw when one wanted to without any restrictions, and altogether treated like a big brother?  I suppose getting “crazy” about a person is as near being in love as they know.  Each country has its ways, but I like romance.

Their astounding adaptability is what strikes one—­the women’s I mean.  The ones who have been to Europe only on trips even, have all acquired a more reserved tone and gentler voices, while the girls who went to school in Paris or have lived in England are wonders of brilliant attraction.  I do not know if any of those would make a noise and rough-house.  They would be clever enough to choose their time and place if they did.