d Palmerton, or someone of that date; a
loose tie and a corduroy Norfolk jacket, all a sort of earth colour
except the tie, which is blue. The friend is the same, and they both
have queer American-looking sort of sombrero greenish felt hats, and the
friend hasn't even a tie.

We were glad to see them, at least I was. We were all in dressing-gowns,
with our hair down, and the girls pretended to hide behind me and be
coy, and we played the fool just like children. It was fun, Mamma, and
think of the faces of Harry's two aunts, the Duchess and Lady Archibald,
if they could have seen me being so undignified. But here no one has any
nasty thoughts, they are all happy and natural and innocent as kittens,
and I am enjoying myself.

Gaston is frightfully jealous of the newcomers, but he is too much of a
polished gentleman to be disagreeable over it; it is only the English
who have remained savages in that respect, showing their tempers as
plainly as a child would do. If you remember, Harry had a thunderous
face before we were married, whenever I teased him, and since, my
heavens! If people even look a good deal in a restaurant he is annoyed.
But I don't mind so much, because my time has always been taken up with
him making love to me himself. It is the cold ones who are jealous just
from vanity that are insupportable, as it is not that they love the
woman so much themselves as because they think it is "dam cheek"
(forgive me, Mamma) for any other man to dare to look at _their_
belongings? Now American men don't seem jealous at all; they are so kind
they are thinking of the woman's pleasure, not their own. Really, I am
sure in the long run they must be far nicer to live with--not a tenth
part as vain as Englishmen.

The most jolly looking, jet-black old nigger in white duck livery
brought us our coffee in the morning. His face is a full moon of
laughter. No one could feel gloomy if he were near, and his voice, like
a little child's, is as sweet as a bird, and such delightful phrasing.
He has been with the Senator for fifteen years and couldn't live "way
from de car." His name is Marcus Aurelius, and I am sure he is just as
great a philosopher as the Emperor was.

The girls have known him since they were babies, of course, and it
is such fun to hear him talking to them, a mixture of authority,
worshipping affection, and familiarity, which I believe only old niggers
can have.

"A pretty sight to see dem tree young ladies as