thought shown in their construction.  They seem rough-hewn—­with foreheads too prominent or noses too big, or too square shoulders or too deep set eyes, nearly always too something—­and the women the same; whereas the children (there are only a few of them fortunately) are really impossible.  There is one family of the fattest boys you ever saw—­simply like the pictures of the fat boy of Peckham, and a little girl of six called Matilda.  Matilda is certainly over thirty in her conversation—­she told me she was sick of ocean travelling—­her eighth voyage; and she was sick of the Continent, too—­you get no good candy there and her Momma did nothing but shop.  She has the voice of a young peacock and the repartee of a Dublin car driver—­absolutely “all there.”  They are fairly rich “store keepers” from Buffalo.  The mother has nerves, the father dyspepsia and the nurse is seasick, so Matilda is quite her own mistress, and rushes over the entire ship conversing with everyone.  She is most amusing for a short time, if it were not pathetic.  She plays off one fat boy (cousins they are of hers) against the other, and one steward against another for biscuits and figs—­with the most consummate skill.  It is no wonder if this quality can be perfected so young by Americans that they can snatch all our best young men from us when they grow up.

I don’t know how it is the most unattractive creatures of every nation seem to be the ones who travel.  There is a family of English who have the next table to us, for instance; they make us blush for our country.  The two young men are the most impossible bounders one could meet, and I am sure their names must be Percy and Ernest!  When there was a dance last night they smoked pipes in the faces of their partners between the valses, and altogether were unspeakably aggressive.  No American in the world would behave like that to women.  I really think the English middle classes are the most odious—­except, perhaps, the Germans—­of any people on earth.  And as these are the ones other nations see most of, no wonder they hate us.

Octavia is so entertained at everything.  We have not spoken to anyone except one family who sit near us on the deck, and they have asked us to stay with them at their country place on the New Jersey shore.  But—­Oh!  I forgot to tell you, Mamma, Mr. Renour is on board.  Is it not a strange coincidence?  He seemed very surprised to see us, and for a moment it was quite awkward when I introduced him to Octavia—­because she, not being deaf like Aunt Maria, I knew would hear him calling me Lady Elizabeth and think it odd, and he would be certain to discover from her that I am married.  So the best thing to do seemed to be to take a walk with him at once on the top deck and explain matters—­this was just before dinner in the twilight.