The only
tiresome part of it is, it must quite take away the zest of forbidden fruit
that European nations get out of such affairs.
Our bedrooms are marvels. Mine is immense, with two suites of impossible
rococo Louis XV. furniture in it; the richest curtains with heaps of
arranged draperies and fringe, grand writing table things, a few
embroidered cushions; but no new books, or comfy sofas, or look of cosy
anywhere. The bathrooms to each room are superb; miles beyond one's ideas
of them in general at home. Tom says he can't sleep because the embroidered
monograms on the pillows and things scratch his cheek, and the lace frills
tickle his nose, while he catches his toes in the Venetian insertion in the
sheets. The linen itself is the finest you ever saw, Mamma, and would be
too exquisite plain. Now one knows where all those marvellously over-worked
things in the Paris shops go to, and all the wonderful gold incrusted
Carlsbad glass. You meet it here in every house.
The gardens are absurd, as compared with ours in England, but they have far
better glass houses and forcing processes and perfection of each plant;
because you see even the gardener would feel his had to be just one better
than the people's next door.
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