But I am wandering, as usual.  You want to know about the dinner at the Brindlecombes’.  Well, thanks to Mrs. Lounsbury’s help and judgment, I had two dresses to pick from, two that seemed right for such a grand affair as I was afraid this was going to be.  And I picked out a black silk, trimmed—­

(Two pages of Mrs. Bangs’ letter are omitted here)

There is more of it at the top and bottom than there was to a whole lot of evening gowns I have seen, on the steamer and in Washington, but I can’t help that.  I guess I am old-fashioned and countrified, but it does seem to me that the place to wear a bathing suit is in the water, especially for a person of my age.  However, it is a real sensible and rich-looking dress, even if it is simple, and I think you would like it.  At any rate, I put it on and Galusha got into his dress suit, after I had helped him find the vest, and stopped him from putting one gold stud and two pearl ones in his shirt.  He didn’t notice, bless him, he was thinking of everything but what he was doing at the minute, as he always is.

So, both in our best bibs and tuckers, and all taut and ready for the sea, as father would have said, we were driven over to the Brindlecombe house, or palace, whichever you call it.  Mr. Brindlecombe—­or Sir Ernest I suppose he should be called, although I never remembered to do it, but called him Mr. Brindlecombe the whole evening—­was a fleshy, bald-headed man, who looked the veriest little bit like Mr. Dearborn, the Congregational minister at Denboro, and was as pleasant and jolly as could be.  His wife was a white-haired little lady, dressed plainly—­the expensive kind of plainness, you know—­and with a diamond pin that was about as wonderful as anything I ever saw.  And I kept thinking to myself:  “Oh, what shall I say to you?  What on earth shall we talk about?” and not getting any answer from myself, either.

But I needn’t have worried.  She was just as sweet and gentle and every-day as any one could be, and pretty soon it came out that we both loved flowers.  That was enough, of course, and so while Mr. Sir Ernest and Galusha were mooning along together about “dynasties” and “papyri” and “sphinxes” and “Ptolemies” and “hieroglyphics” and mummies and mercy knows what, his wife and I were having a lovely time growing roses and dahlias and lilies.  She told me a new way to keep geranium roots alive for months after taking them up.  She learned it from her gardener and if ever I get a chance I am going to try it.  Well, Lulie, instead of having a dreadful time I enjoyed every minute of it, and yesterday Mrs. Brindlecombe—­Lady Brindlecombe, I suppose she really is—­came and took me to drive.  We shopped and had a glorious afternoon.  I presume likely I said “Mercy me” and “Goodness gracious” as often as I usually do and that they sounded funny to her.  But she said “My word” and “Fancy” and they sounded just as funny to me.  And it didn’t make a bit of difference.