To the _popote_ at seven-thirty, and before I’m an hour older I’m going to tell you about the _popote_. And you’ll wish you had been there instead of hearing about it—as runs the classic expression, “_Regarder manger des glaces_,” and I give the translation, “Watch others eat ice-cream,” partly because I want you all to know just what I mean, and partly because some one in the United States wrote to my publishers that _My Lorraine Journal_ was a nice book, but couldn’t they suggest to me that I write my books either in French or English. MRS. O’S.: “But, my dear Mr. Graham” (his name is Graham, and this may be his chance of immortality), “I couldn’t write one entirely in French to save my soul, and to save my soul I’d find it impossible when everything I’m writing about takes place in France not to slip into _la belle langue_ occasionally.” MR. GRAHAM (from a distance): “Occasionally! There you’re at it again. Occasionally!” (It does get on his nerves.) MRS. O’S.: “And there is another saying to the effect that ‘_On ne peut pas contenter tout le monde et son père_.’ That is to say, dear Mr. Graham, that you can’t please everybody and your father as well, and this, of course, mostly applies to young men (are you a son or are you a father?) trying to win smiles outside family circles—and father ultimately paying the bills. But as it occurs to me here, there must be some connection.” MR. GRAHAM: “I don’t see it. And while I’m about it, I’d like to tell you a thing or two concerning those Mexican books of yours. The Spanish was awful—even _The Yale Review_ and _The Nation_ noticed it.” MRS. O’S. (getting a bit nasty): “It’s about all either of them did notice, especially _The Yale Review_; and nobody loves me on _The Nation_, but it was entirely the printer’s fault. He received them immaculate. I turned my face to the wall for three days after a glance at _A Diplomat’s Wife_. But then you probably don’t remember how perfectly sweet about these very books _The North American Review_ was (a man with the most perceptive of souls and a neat flair for the imponderabilities, named Lawrence Gilman, does _their_ book reviews), also _The New Republic_, which possesses a man named Alvin Johnson, inexorably sure about the humanities, separating with a single, infallible gesture the goats of letters from the sheep (but he still thinks, alas! that all men are born free and equal). And _The New York Sun_ was kind, kind, and _The New York Evening Post_, too, and they do say this latter rarely says anything nice about people till they’re dead and can’t enjoy it, and _The New York Tribune_, which has the reputation of being very particular about itself, and _The New York Times_, which never jokes and is known as a searcher after truth.”