Another trifling piece of news!  My father has this morning refused the appointment as Minister of State which was offered him.  This accounts for his preoccupied manner last night.  He says he would prefer an embassy to the worries of public debate.  Spain in especial attracts him.

This news was told me at lunch, the one moment of the day when my father, mother, and brother see each other in an easy way.  The servants then only come when they are rung for.  The rest of the day my brother, as well as my father, spends out of the house.  My mother has her toilet to make; between two and four she is never visible; at four o’clock she goes out for an hour’s drive; when she is not dining out, she receives from six to seven, and the evening is given to entertainments of various kinds—­theatres, balls, concerts, at homes.  In short, her life is so full, that I don’t believe she ever has a quarter of an hour to herself.  She must spend a considerable time dressing in the morning; for at lunch, which takes place between eleven and twelve, she is exquisite.  The meaning of the things that are said about her is dawning on me.  She begins the day with a bath barely warmed, and a cup of cold coffee with cream; then she dresses.  She is never, except on some great emergency, called before nine o’clock.  In summer there are morning rides, and at two o’clock she receives a young man whom I have never yet contrived to see.

Behold our family life!  We meet at lunch and dinner, though often I am alone with my mother at this latter meal, and I foresee that still oftener I shall take it in my own rooms (following the example of my grandmother) with only Miss Griffith for company, for my mother frequently dines out.  I have ceased to wonder at the indifference my family have shown to me.  In Paris, my dear, it is a miracle of virtue to love the people who live with you, for you see little enough of them; as for the absent—­they do not exist!

Knowing as this may sound, I have not yet set foot in the streets, and am deplorably ignorant.  I must wait till I am less of the country cousin and have brought my dress and deportment into keeping with the society I am about to enter, the whirl of which amazes me even here, where only distant murmurs reach my ear.  So far I have not gone beyond the garden; but the Italian opera opens in a few days, and my mother has a box there.  I am crazy with delight at the thought of hearing Italian music and seeing French acting.

Already I begin to drop convent habits for those of society.  I spend the evening writing to you till the moment for going to bed arrives.  This has been postponed to ten o’clock, the hour at which my mother goes out, if she is not at the theatre.  There are twelve theatres in Paris.