airs together.

When we sat down he said women were devils, which I thought very rude
of him. I told him so, and he said I wasn't a woman; but I remember
now, Mamma, he called me a "little devil" that time when he was so rude
at Nazeby, so it shows how inconsistent men are, doesn't it? I
sometimes think he would like to say all the nice things the Vicomte
used to, only with Englishmen I suppose you have to be alone in the
room for them to do that; they have not the least idea, like the
French, of managing while they are speaking out loud about something
else.

Every one looks very anxious here when they play; it is not at all a
joke as the roulette used to be at Nazeby; and they do put a lot on,
although counters don't seem to be much to look at. It is not at all a
difficult game, Mamma, and some of the people were so lucky turning up
"naturels," but we lost in spite of them at our side of the table, and
Lord Doraine said at last, that it was because we--Lord Valmond and
I--were sitting together. Valmond looked angry, but he chaffed back. I
don't know what it was all about, and I was getting so sleepy, that
when a fresh deal was going to begin I asked Octavia, who was near, if
I might not go to bed. She nodded, so I slipped away. Lord Valmond
followed, to light my candle he said, but as there is nothing but
electric light that was nonsense. He was just beginning to say
something nice, when we got beyond the carved oak screen that separates
the staircase from the saloon, and there there were rows of footmen and
people peeping in, so he just said "Good-night."

[Sidenote: _A Good-night_]

And I also will say good-night to you, Mamma, or I shall look ugly
to-morrow for the ball.--Love from your affectionate daughter,
Elizabeth.

Foljambe Place,

_16th November_.

[Sidenote: _Bad Weather_]

Dearest Mamma,--I have just come up to dress for tea, but I find it is
earlier than I thought, so I shall have time to tell you about to-day.
It has absolutely poured with rain and sleet and snow and blown a gale
from the moment we woke this morning until now--quite the most horrid
weather I ever remember. All the men were in such tempers, as it was
impossible to shoot. Mr. Murray-Hartley had prepared thousands of tame
pheasants for them, Tom said, although this wasn't to be a big shoot,
only to amuse them by the way; and they were all looking forward to a
regular slaughter.

Octavia, and I, and Lady Bobby, were among the