Los Angeles, 5th—No one bangs the door at Schuyler’s.
The servants drop their eyes meekly before they speak.
A well-bred atmosphere circulates.
A woman over forty-five is nothing if she isn’t motherly enough to let one feel at home. Mrs. Schuyler’s silence is a smile. I loved her from my first glance. I thought I could ask her to wash my hair some sunny day. I could fancy how pleasant it would be to immerse myself in her chat—such sort of talk as an old-bonneted “how to keep house”—while I was drying my hair in the indolence of a sea-nymph. Modern topic is like black coffee, it is too stimulating. There is nothing dearer than a domestic subject.
I have no hesitation in accepting her as my Meriken mother.
I am positive I would feel more comfortable if I had one in this country.
How good-naturedly she was fattened!
A somewhat stout woman looks so proper for a mother.
I wished I could lean on her plump shoulder from the back in Japanese girl’s way, and play with her hair, and ask a few innocent questions like “What have I to eat for dinner?”
She talked about the Japanese woman, principally praising her shapely mouth.