ort of way, as if she were carrying on the
conversation with her knife and fork, cutting the sentences into bits,
some ignoring and some eating,--and none agreeing with her, or she
agreeing with none. Then George Ringold asked, I suppose, for me. I am
quite aware that women who are indiscreet themselves think there is
"more than meets the eye" between George and me. I am very fond of him,
and so is Dick. And he has kissed me, and Dick knows it; but I am sure
I need not tell you that is all. On the other side was Romedek, and
perhaps I ought to feel complimented, but as, thanks to Mrs.
Westington, we didn't succeed in carrying on to a finish any single
conversation we started, I don't allow myself to be too flattered.

Mrs. W. talked music, of course--the commonplaces of it--such as any
well-bred, smart, educated woman of the world knows how to talk
nowadays, with perhaps just one good, big, absurd mistake thrown
in,--thus, by the grace of humor keeping banality from becoming
absolutely fatal. Madame Romedek was rather amusing. She tried to be
the lady--which, as she doesn't know how, and only succeeds in being
impossibly stupid, must have bored the men on each side of her
tremendously. That's where foolish women of that sort spoil their own
game. If they would make the best of the bargain, and be frankly a
common cocotte _gone right_, they would certainly be more amusing,
and might have something like success, at any rate with the men.

The food was excellent, the wine good, the house lovely! And as soon
after dinner as was at all decent, we left. We decided in the cab on
our way home, from no point of view had it paid,--financially least of
all; for our dinner in the restaurant, with all our jolly friends,
would have cost us only seventy-five cents, while our cab bill for the
evening was three dollars. As for having had a good time, there was
only one person there who had that--Mrs. Westington herself. I believe
even the servants must have been bored by the dinner, unless, perhaps,
Madame Romedek flirted with _them_; which I should think extremely
likely.

I am getting sleepy now, of which fact my letter undoubtedly bears
"internal evidence." So good night and sweet dreams to you, and none to
me--I don't like them!

Write me what you are doing in Paris. I am sure your husband will have
his usual great success in the Champ de Mars. We are all very proud of
him.

With love, dear Dora,

GUENNE BARROWS.

Th