At dinner, Baby talked of the bad taste and imbecility of practical jokes. In the evening, he wrote to seventeen periodicals denying he had written The Mauve Camellia, and asking to have it contradicted. We waltzed. Captain Mashington dances better than ever, and has nice eyes. That night I found hair-brushes in my bed, I see nothing funny in it, and shall not speak to Baby Beaumont until he apologises.
Great excitement prevailed here last week. It was discovered that Samovarski, the great Russian pianist, was in the neighbourhood. He accepted an invitation to come here for two days. Imagine the joy of the Lyon Taymers! They sent out invitations with "To meet M. Samovarski," printed on the cards. He is known to be rather erratic, but as he was actually to stay in the house it seemed quite safe. Thirty-six people came to a dinner in his honour.
Samovarski arrived at seven, asked for some lager beer, and went straight to bed. Nothing on earth would induce him to get up, or even to unlock his door or answer an inquiry. It was a terrible evening. The Taymers hoped on for the next day. The great composer got up at two. Many people had stayed on the chance of hearing him play. It was a beautiful day, and Lady Taymer entreated to be allowed to drive him round the neighbourhood. He declined, and spent the whole afternoon playing piquet with his secretary. At dinner, he talked absurdities about the Chinese war, refusing even to mention music—which it seems he detests—and then, very courteously, begged to be excused, as he had to correct the proofs of his article "Impressions of English Country Life" for some Moscow journal.... Do not mention the subject to the Taymers when you see them. We are going to have private theatricals!! I will write again soon.
Your loving friend,
Gladys.
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.