"10th January.—I did not close my letter yesterday, finding it would catch to-day's mail if I posted it this morning; and I knew you would like to hear about our dinner. The Hurlstones live in Fifth Avenue. It is a fine house, and everything about it is very grand—more grand, perhaps, than comfortable, according to our ideas. Americans have always been ruled by French taste, not only in dress, but in art and in certain social matters. The old French idea of a salon prevails here: gorgeous furniture, but no books, no writing-table, no evidences of occupation—except a grand piano, shrouded in some rare gold-woven tapestry. A few pictures by Corot, Daubigny, and Troyon adorn the walls. A bust of Mrs. Hurlstone by D'Epinay, with a bunch of roses in her hair, a necklace and a lace fichu over her shoulders, stands in the window. The two ladies were dressed, like their home, in the perfection of French taste. You know the father and the mother—who is still handsome—so I need not describe them; but the daughter has grown up since they were in England, and is considered a beauty. She has delicate features, fine eyes, and pretty, though not brilliant, coloring. She is intelligent, vivacious, and meets one more than half way in her desire to be agreeable, as few English girls of eighteen would be able to do. She has, moreover, no twang, no ugly intonations of voice. Why don't I admire her more? I kept asking myself this as I watched her. Though set off by dress to the best advantage, for some reason she does not produce the effect she should. There is one son, a year older, equally good-looking, perhaps even handsomer, but of that order of beauty that leaves no impression. I have already forgotten what he was like, except that he wore a very large diamond in his shirt-front. The father took me in to dinner. I like him exceedingly, perhaps the best of the family; but all were most amiable. We were sixteen at dinner. Nearly every other guest was actually, or prospectively, a millionnaire. The women were all very well dressed, and wore a great many jewels—more than, perhaps, we should think quite good taste for this sort of party. They were, one and all, extremely civil—offering to take me out driving, and so on. One of them, a Mrs. Siebel, married to a wealthy banker of German origin, was particularly bright and amusing. I felt as if I knew her better in half an hour than I have ever done an Englishwoman in the same time. Another, Mrs. Thorly, who is the sovereign of all social entertainments here, was most gracious. She is going to give a great ball, to which she invited us. Some of the men struck me as clever; especially in conversation with their own countrywomen, their quickness and incisiveness were remarkable. With me they seemed a little stiff—a little on their p's and q's. One of the exceptions was a man whom they called 'George Ray the Third.' When I inquired the reason of this curious appellation I was told it was because his father and grandfather, both alive, were also Georges. He is a splendid animal, and he knows it. He certainly cannot be accused of being stiff. He planted his chair opposite me, leant his elbows on his knees, and told me of all the great people he knew in London, as though he thought that was the only topic that would interest me. This was not clever on George the Third's part. And yet he was anything but dull, and his perfect self-satisfaction entertained me. Mrs. Hurlstone seemed afraid he might prove perilously entertaining. She was good enough to inform me that he had not a penny—he had run through everything. It was considerate of her. A much more amusing man, however, sat next me at dinner—a barrister named Sims, shrewd and humorous. I asked him who a little red-haired man with a waxed moustache opposite was; evidently a foreigner. He replied, 'He is Jean Jacques, Marquis de Tréfeuille, a pair de France of the first water, who is come over here to hitch on to an heiress, if he can. It was of him that some wag wrote,
"'"Tu es Jean, tu es Jacques, tu es roux, tu es sot,
Mais tu n'es pas Jean Jacques Rousseau!'"
"I inquired if the girl next him was the future marquise. He shook his head. 'I doubt it. Even if she tumbles to the coronet, he will find her father won't make the settlement the marquis expects. He will give her a big allowance, but not a lump sum down, and I doubt if that will suit the marquis.' Before the evening was over Mr. Sims asked Mordy and me to dine with him at Delmonico's next week. I have no time for more.
"Your ever affectionate niece,
"Grace Ballinger.
"P.S.—Mordy says he will write to you by the next mail. He is already up to his eyes in engagements, and made a great deal of, a great deal more of than he is in London, so no wonder he likes it.
"Second P.S.—Mordy has just run in, shouting with laughter, this morning's Scavenger in his hand. 'Here you are!' he cried, 'and serve you right!' Then he read the cutting (I am not sunk so low as to mean a pun) which I enclose. I hope it will amuse you as much as it did him."
The paragraph was as follows:
"Sir Mordaunt Ballinger, Baronet and M.P., with his sister, landed here from the Teutonic yesterday. She is credited with being a London belle, and as such, and the daughter of one of the few Englishmen who have not written gross falsehoods concerning our country, we were desirous of interviewing her; but the young woman, with a rudeness peculiarly British, refused to submit to any interrogation. If she is a specimen of London's beauty we cannot congratulate that city on its show. A grenadier in petticoats, quite wanting in the delicacy and elegance we consider essential for beauty, best describes her. She is decidedly too fleshy. Her hair is not stylishly coifed, and there is a slip-sloppiness about her attire which denotes that she is not gowned in Paris. Altogether, we have seldom experienced a greater disappointment, both as to appearance and manner, in a woman of whom we had been taught to expect so much."