Mr. Schurz, as Secretary of the Interior, was to receive a conclave of Indians, and could not refuse Mrs. Lawrence, Miss Chapman, and myself when we begged to be present at the interview.  They came to make some contracts.  The interpreter, or agent, or whatever he was, who had them in charge proposed to dress them suitably for the occasion, but when he heard there were to be ladies present he added colored and striped shirts, which, the Indians insisted upon wearing over their embroidered buckskin trousers.  They caused a sensation as they came out of the clothes-shop.  They had feather head-dresses and braids of hair hanging down by the sides of their brown cheeks.  They wore bracelets on their bare arms and blankets over their shoulders.  They sat in a semicircle around Mr. Schurz.  After Mr. Schurz had heard what the interpreter had to say he and the other members of the committee (they call them “undershirts”) talked together for a while, and Mr. Schurz said, “I cannot accept,” which was translated to the chief, who looked more sullen and treacherous than before.  Then there was a burst of wild Indian, and the chief held forth in a deep bass voice, I fancy giving pieces of his mind to Mr. Schurz, which were translated in a milder form.  Mrs. Lawrence, who looks at everything in a rosy, sentimental light, thought they looked high-spirited and noble.  I, who am prosaic to my finger-tips, thought they looked conceited, brutal, and obstinate.  They all sat with their tomahawks laid by the side of their chairs.  The chief was not insensible to the beauty of Miss Chapman, and sat behind his outspread fingers, gazing at her and her jewelry.  We were glad to get away from the barbarous-looking people.  All the same, the interview was very interesting.

* * * * *

General and Mrs. Albert Meyer gave a dinner in honor of the President and Mrs. Hayes, to which some diplomats were invited.  You know Mr. Meyer is the man called “Old Prob,” because he tells one beforehand what weather one can expect for the next picnic.

This was the first dinner that the Presidential couple had gone to, and we were a little curious to see how it would be managed.  As neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hayes drinks wine, they were served all the different known brands of mineral waters, milk, and tea.  But the others got wine.  Mr. Meyer was very funny when he took up his glass, looked at it critically, and said, “I recommend this vintage.”  The President did not seem to mind these plaisanteries.  We were curious to see what they would do when punch a la Romaine, which stood on the menu in a little paragraph by itself, would be served.  It was a rather strong punch (too strong for any of the diplomats) and the glasses were deep, but they seemed to enjoy this glimpse into the depths of perdition and did not leave a mouthful.  Taking it, you see, with a spoon made a difference.

The Lesseps were among the guests.  There are thirteen little Lesseps somewhere; only one daughter is with them.  Monsieur Lesseps is twenty-five years older than Madame, if not more.  When the three came in the salon, young Miss Bayard said, “The girl is taking her mother and grandfather into society.”