via says, from a morality standard, she does not see there is the least
difference to our lovers in England and France, but I do, because here they
have the comforting sense of the law finding it all right. The only
tiresome part of it is, it must quite take away the zest of forbidden fruit
that European nations get out of such affairs.

Our bedrooms are marvels. Mine is immense, with two suites of impossible
rococo Louis XV. furniture in it; the richest curtains with heaps of
arranged draperies and fringe, grand writing table things, a few
embroidered cushions; but no new books, or comfy sofas, or look of cosy
anywhere. The bathrooms to each room are superb; miles beyond one's ideas
of them in general at home. Tom says he can't sleep because the embroidered
monograms on the pillows and things scratch his cheek, and the lace frills
tickle his nose, while he catches his toes in the Venetian insertion in the
sheets. The linen itself is the finest you ever saw, Mamma, and would be
too exquisite plain. Now one knows where all those marvellously over-worked
things in the Paris shops go to, and all the wonderful gold incrusted
Carlsbad glass. You meet it here in every house.

The gardens are absurd, as compared with ours in England, but they have far
better glass houses and forcing processes and perfection of each plant;
because you see even the gardener would feel his had to be just one better
than the people's next door. They are far prouder of these imported things
than their divine natural trees, or the perfectly glorious view over the
Hudson, and insisted upon us examining all that, while Mr. Spleist told us
how much it all cost and would not let us linger to get the lovely picture
of the river and the opposite shore; until Octavia said we had a few
greenhouses at home and some fairly fine gardens, but nowhere had we so
noble a river or so vast a view, and he seemed to be quite hurt at all
that, because he had not bought them, I suppose! And yet, Mamma, I cannot
tell you what kind, nice people the Spleists really are; only the strange
quality of boast and application of personal material gain is most
extraordinary.

The outside of the house is brownish red sandstone, and is a wonderful
mixture of all styles.

There is no room in it where there is any look of what we call "home," and
not one shabby thing. Mrs. Spleist has a "boudoir"--and it is a boudoir! It
is as if you went into the best shop and said, "I want a boudo