The Carlton Hotel
15th November

Darling Elizabeth:

Yesterday it rained as it only can rain in London in November, and when it stopped for a few minutes there was such a nasty fog. We had breakfast in bed, and didn't get up till quite twelve; it was such a miserable day we didn't know what to do with ourselves, so we went down-stairs and sat in that jolly place with the glass roof and the palms, and there was quite a good band playing. There were very few people there, as it isn't the season, but about one o'clock a great many people began to come for lunch. Most of the men looked like Jews, and they all wore gold rings with crests on their little fingers. I am sure they were company-promoters, for presently Lord de Manton arrived with poor, tottering Lord Ardath, and joined some of the Israelite people, and they all At Lunchwent in to lunch together. Little Dolly Daydreams of the Tivoli drove up in a hansom with that young simpleton, Percy Felton, of the Scots Greys. We could see them through the glass doors as they got out of the cab; she lifted her skirt up to her knee to keep it out of the wet, and he kissed her on the ear right in front of the porter. Lady Ann Fairfax, the war-special, had lunch with six khaki men, and they made such a noise at their table we could hear them laughing where we were. Medina, Viscountess Frogmore, and Mrs. Beverley Fruit came together and sat down near us for a few minutes when they were joined by the Bishop of St. Esau and the three had lunch together. The Viscountess was in deep mourning, her crape veil trailed on the ground behind her, and she looked very melancholy; you know her son fell at Magersfontein. A smart-looking curate, evidently late, rushed up after they sat down. Blanche says she thinks he is a protÉgÉ of the Bishop's, he paid the greatest deference to both the Bishop and Lady Frogmore after lunch when they were having coffee outside in the glass place where the band is. I am sure we shall hear of him one of these days.

A lank man, with long hair and a flabby face, and a woman who looked the wife of the editor of a newspaper, took the seats next us vacated by Lady Frogmore and Mrs. Fruit. The man criticised Mrs. Fruit's books; Blanche whispered to me that she thought he must be an unsuccessful author, for he hadn't a good word to say for either Mrs. Fruit or her works. The conversation turned on to "An Englishwoman's Love Letters." The woman said she was dying to know who wrote them; the man became quite mysterious, with a could-if-I-would air. She playfully tapped him on the arm with the handle of her umbrella, and guessed he was the author. He looked very self-satisfied, and admitted he knew who the author was, but was bound by frightful oaths never to divulge the secret. But the woman wouldn't believe him; she declared if he hadn't written the book, he didn't know who did, for she was constantly hearing people say they knew the author and the reason he did not wish his identity disclosed.

Then the conversation drifted on to Exeter Hall, and Labouchere and Stead and the Society notes in the Daily Sensation, and the War in South Africa, and the man talked of some poems he had written, and what the critics had said of them, and the woman listened. When he had exhausted himself, the woman began. She talked of high life just like a pocket peerage; she told anecdotes of Royalty, which she said were perfectly true; she knew what peers gambled, who married actresses, who were divorced, who had a mÉnage in St. John's Wood, and she knew what peeresses dyed their hair, and where they did it, and what they said and what they thought. She even mentioned Lady Beatrice's name, and said that it was rumoured Tom Carterville had gone back to South Africa, because he was displeased that his mother intended to marry a Low Church curate. Poor Lady Beatrice! She also mentioned me, and that I was the best dressed woman in Society (dear Paquin), and that it was considered very improper of me to let you visit at the places you did. I am sure she was the wife of a journalist, for she knew so much more about Society than Society knew about itself or her.

Just as Blanche and I were about to go to lunch, the Vicomte arrived. He looked immaculate and quite good-looking for a Frenchman; he had been inspecting automobiles the whole morning, and he was as hungry as a lion. We had lunch together in a corner, where we could see everybody; after lunch, the Vicomte had an engagement at the French Embassy, but he said he would be back to dine with us, and take us to a music hall. As the weather had mended, I said I would go to Alice Hughes to have my photograph taken, as I should have to pay if I did not keep the appointment; Blanche went to Marshall & Snelgrove to spend the afternoon. While I was waiting at the "studio," old Lady Blubber came in; she showed me her proofs, and was delighted with them. They didn't look the least bit like her; all the flabby rings under her eyes were smoothed out, and her mouth was made straight and the lump taken off the bridge of her nose. She said she should order three dozen, that they were the best likeness she had ever had taken! After that I went to a tea-shop in Bond Street, and came back to the Carlton to find that ThÉrÈse had taken the afternoon out. As I can't, as you know, do the slightest thing for myself, I was absolutely helpless, so I just got into a wrapper, and read "Gyp" in front of the fire. By and bye ThÉrÈse came; she was spattered with mud as if she had been spending the day in Fleet Street, and she brought with her a strong odour of malt.

When I scolded her, ever so gently, for going out without leave, she flew into a rage, and wanted to know if I wished a month's notice. Then she began to weep and pity herself, and her cheeks were the colour of lobsters, and she behaved very strangely. I told her to get my bath ready, and she fell asleep while it was filling, and the water overflowed and did no end of damage. I got very angry, and accused her of being drunk, which she indignantly denied, saying she had only been to see her mother who lives in Soho. I sent her to bed after that, and Blanche laced me up and did my hair, but I felt like a fright for the rest of the night.

Dinner was rather tame, as there were so few people in the room, but of course one can't expect the season to last all the year round. The Vicomte had, after great difficulty, managed to get seats for "Mr. and Mrs. Daventry." Between the acts we heard people discussing who wrote it, and in fact, it is as much of an enigma as the authorship of "An Englishwoman's Love Letters." Blanche thinks the same person wrote both.

The Vicomte thought the play very "polite," and was astonished that it had created such a sensation. He said we ought to see "La Dame aux Maximes" and "Demie-Vierge," both now running in Paris. We all agreed that the play was thoroughly representative of Society, but the unnatural parts were Daventry's suicide and the elopement of his wife with Ashurst. People don't do these things in our set. The company was excellent, and Blanche and I both wished we were Mrs. Pat Campbell to have love made to us so delightfully every night by young Du Maurier. Even the Vicomte said they didn't do it better in France, and he is sure Du Maurier did it so well, because he was half French.

We had supper at the Savoy. The usual sight. At a table near us was an actress trÈs dÉcolletÉe; six of our jeunesse frivole were squabbling for her smiles. We left before the lights were turned out, because the people behave so badly in the corridor. The Vicomte leaves for Paris to-morrow; he is so much nicer in England than abroad.—Your dearest Mamma.