The Carlton Hotel
17th November

Darling Elizabeth:

Hail, Marchioness of Valmond, all hail! Your letter gave me the greatest possible pleasure. You have made the match I desired for you, and I do not know who deserves the greatest credit for it—you who hooked this fine fish, Octavia who helped you to land it, or I who taught you how to fish, and then sent you to the pool where my lord trout disported himself. But apart from chaffing, Elizabeth, I am sincerely glad for you, because Valmond really seems to love you, and as men go, he will make you a good husband. As soon as your visit to Octavia is over, you must come straight to me; we will go to Paris for the trousseau and to Rome for the winter; a little delay and absence will do Valmond good, and then, darling, we will come to England and start the season with your noces, which shall be done as befits a Marquis and Marchioness of Valmond.

He wrote me to-day, as did Octavia; I am replying by this same post to both. Assure them both of my unfaltering affection.

I had intended going back to Monk's Folly, but, since the news in your letter, I have decided to stop in town till you come in a day or two. Blanche sends her congratulations; she has gone home, as Daisy wanted a rest. Mrs. Blaine is on the high road to recovery, and they will most likely go to Rome with us.

Blanche left last night, after going with me to the Bazaar for Distressed Gentlewomen. It was held at Mauve House, lent by the Duke of Mauve, and was under the patronage of the Duke and Duchess, but organised by Mr. Albert D. Beake, editor and proprietor of "White Lies," said to be the most successful of all the Society papers. The Bazaar was opened by Royalty, and Mr. Beake must have cleared a large sum for the Distressed Gentlewomen as well as advertised his paper and juggled himself and wife into Society for once at any rate. His wife is the woman I wrote you about the other day, who came to the Carlton to lunch, and talked so much about Society. I said at the time she was an editor's wife. Mr. Beake was everywhere, but his wife had a stall with the Duchess of Mauve, who looked awfully bored.

One of the features of the bazaar was the Stage Stall. Mr. Beake had got most of the best known actors and actresses to take part. It was a huge success; the people were three deep round the stall, crushing to see the professionals; they sold everything. It was rather odd to observe the stall immediately next to the stage one. Lady Hildegarde Merrioneath presided, and was assisted by some young and pretty girls. The crowd did not know who they were, and they hardly sold a thing. Lady Hildegarde, who is the most refined and aristocratic woman I know, with that mixture of Vere de Vere and sweetness which so often marks our best born women, stood in the back of her stall, looking rather amused at the complete desertion of it. Here was the type of the real aristocrat, the real great lady, and the parvenus couldn't see it! I felt like telling the people that they were blind and fools, that if they had any taste, any appreciation, any refinement, all the other stalls would be deserted to overwhelm Lady Hildegarde's. Mr. Beake, running about with a china pig in his hands, which he was trying to raffle, noticed that Lady Hildegarde was not a success, and he actually had the impudence to patronise her. I suppose his vulgar commercial head was turned with the thought that the bazaar was his work, and that his wife was side by side with a real live duchess. Lady Hildegarde replied with some conventional remark, and her smile seemed to me more amused than ever, as if it were all very funny and not worth being angry about. For, after all, she was Lady Hildegarde Merrioneath, and Mr. Beake was only Mr. Beake, and his actors and actresses stars whose lights went out. I shall never forget the picture Lady Hildegarde made in her deserted stall, side by side with the crowded booth of the actors. It made me think of the French Revolution, and the noblesse going to the guillotine in the tumbrils, so far above her surroundings, was Lady Hildegarde.

A little more pushing and shoving and playing the "Charity trick," and Mr. and Mrs. Beake will be like the Vane-Corduroys, if, for all I know, they are not already rangÉ. But, as Blanche said, the sentiments that pervade the mind of Mr. Beake and his kidney are the mainstay of our national life and the existing rÉgime, and it doesn't do to guard the portals to the high born too closely. As a future marchioness, I pray you shudder when you read the Sunday papers at Chevenix Castle with the detailed account of Mr. Beake's bazaar.

Blanche and I bought nothing, nor did the few of our set who were there, which as usual left the charity to the crowd.

I saw Blanche off at Paddington, and wished I had decided to go with her; you need not be surprised if you get a telegram from me to-morrow to say I have gone home. It is wretchedly dull by myself, and I can't take ThÉrÈse with me everywhere; besides I have to come up to my room early, as it is not proper for me to sit in the public rooms by myself at night.

ThÉrÈse, in brushing out my hair to-night, asked me why I didn't marry again; she said that she knew men admired me, for one of the Vane-Corduroys' footmen at Shotover had told her I was a woman to drive men mad. ThÉrÈse of course gauges the value of men's admiration from the footman class, but I think I have not yet got to the shady side of beauty, and that perhaps it is just as well Valmond saw you before he met me. As money will never be a consideration, and I have social position, and as I am not yet forty-five, I shall not marry for love, so I shall keep my freedom, which I enjoy so much.

Once again, my darling, I congratulate you, and wish you all happiness. Good-night.—Your dearest Mamma.