I was officially presented on their reception days to the wives of all the Ministers, and made my visits to the members of the Corps Diplomatique.  We were invited to dinner at the White House—­a dinner given to the Corps Diplomatique.  I was taken in by M. de Schloezer, the German Minister, and sat between him and Sir Edward Thornton (the English Minister), who sat on the right of Mrs. Grant.  We were opposite to the President.  I noticed that he turned his wine-glasses upside down, to indicate, I suppose, that he did not drink wine during dinner.  Afterward we amused ourselves by walking in the long Blue Room.  The President disappeared with some of the gentlemen to smoke and was lost to view.  The company also faded gradually away.  Mrs. Grant did not seem inclined to gaze on us any longer, and appeared to be relieved when we shook her outstretched hand and said “Good night.”

A dinner to which we went, given by the Schiskines (the Russian Minister) in honor of the Grand-Duke Constantine of Russia, was most delightful.  The Grand Duke is very charming, natural, with a sly twinkle in his mild blue eye.  He has a very handsome face, is extremely musical, and plays the piano with great finesse, having a most sympathetic touch.

[Illustration:  MRS. U.S.  GRANT From a photograph taken about 1876, when she was mistress of the White House.]

[Illustration:  SARAH BERNHARDT From a photograph taken at the time of her visit to Boston.]

After dinner we darned stockings.  This sounds queer, but nevertheless it is true.  The Schiskines had just bought a darning-machine.  They paid eighty-six dollars for it; but to darn, one must have holes, and no holes could be found in a single decent stocking, so they had to cut holes, and then we darned.  The Grand Duke was so enchanted with this darning that he is going to take a machine home to the Grand Duchess, his august mother.

The darning done, we had some music.  M. de Schloezer improvised on the piano, and after the Grand Duke had played some Chopin I sang.  M. de Schloezer went through his little antics as advance-courier of my singing:  he screwed the piano-stool to the proper height (he thinks it must be just so high when I accompany myself); he removed all albums from sight for fear people might be tempted to glance in them; he almost snatched fans from the hands of unoffending ladies, fearing they might use them; no dogs were to be within patting distance, and no smoking; he turned all the chairs to face the piano so that no one should turn his back to it.  These are all heinous crimes in his eyes.  He would, if he could, have pulled down all the portieres and curtains, as he does in his own house when I sing there.  What must people think of him?