talk much, and as I said
before nearly all the men, married or single, make you feel as good as
gold, so it is no wonder such numbers of beautiful Americans come to
Europe. I am quite sure if we had to lead their life we would turn into the
most awful creatures. It is greatly to their credit they remain so nice.

When you can get one or two alone to have a connected conversation they are
perfectly charming, and often very cultivated, and nearly always knowing
about music; but sometimes, supposing one is discussing a phaze of the
Renaissance, say, they will suddenly speak of something as belonging to it
of quite another period, and you feel perfectly nonplussed, it seems so
remarkable with the clever things they have just said they can make such
mistakes. Perhaps it's that they do not study any one subject very deeply.

One thing is noticeable and nice. The conversations everywhere are all
absolutely "jeune fille"; never anything the least "risque," though it is
often amusing.

Among the "smart set" (do forgive this awful term, Mamma, but I mean by
that the ones who are "in the swim" and whose society is the goal of the
other's desire: I don't know what else to call them) they don't often tell
you about the Mayflower and their ancestors; though on Wednesday a
frightfully rich person who has only lately been admitted into this inner
circle because her daughters have both married foreign Princes, said to me,
she loved the English, and was indeed English herself and some distant
connection of our King, being descended from Queen Elizabeth!!! It was
rather unfortunate her having pitched upon our Virgin Queen, wasn't it,
Mamma!? But perhaps as she had rather an Italian look it was the affair of
the Venetian attache, and when I suggested that to her, she gazed at me
blankly and said, "Why, no, there never has been any side-tracking in our
family; we've always been virtuous and always shall be."

Now that you know, generally, what a luncheon is, I must tell you of the
particular one at Mrs. Van Brounker-Courtfield's. She is the dearest old
lady you ever met, Mamma--witty and quaint and downright, with an immense
chic--grey hair brushed up into the most elaborate coiffure, jet black eyes
with the wickedest twinkle in them, and a strong cleft in a double chin.
She is rather stout but has Paris clothes and perfect jewels. She is not a
bit like English old ladies, sticking to their hideous early Victorian
settings for their diamo