I left you in the _patio_ of San Joaquin. When I went to see how the artists were progressing, I found them both looking miserable and discouraged. No "fine frenzy" to the roll of their eyes, though they _were_ "glancing from heaven to earth." The beauty here isn't one to record on canvas, rather on memory and soul, which, having remarked to them as gently as I could, they began to clean their palettes. We took a last, regretful look at all the pinky loveliness, the tiled dome, the silent belfry, the slender heads of the two straight, coal-black cypresses, and the inexpressibly lovely wall, wrapped ourselves about with the shining air, and bumped homewards. "Quick, thy tablets, memory." _July 20th._ We dined last night at the Ernesto Maderos' in their handsome house in the Paseo, large enough to lose the six children in. Madame M. has been in mourning (something that seems to happen to women oftener in Mexico than in other places) and now is "out" again. The official Mexicans spare no expense on the occasions when they open their houses, but it is always with ceremony, without individuality; _enfin_ Mexicans receiving foreigners. The Riedls were there, and the Simons; I have an idea Mr. S. finds his task a big one. He rarely goes out, but this, to the Secretary of the Treasury, was strictly within his orbit. Madame Simon wore a beautiful black _pailletté_ gown, with subtle touches of "point de Venise," recently out from Paris. She has driven us all nearly crazy, anyway, with the ravishing _croquis_ and _échantillons_ Drecoll and Doeuillet have been sending her, and which lie, temptingly, among the latest French reviews and newest books on her table. I sat by Lascurain, talking pleasantly of things not political; that ground is volcanic and no place for foreigners, even well-disposed. The new Belgian chargé, Letellier, was on my other side. A letter to-day from Madame de la G. from Châlons-sur-Marne, where the Marquis is in command of the garrison. She will always be, to me, typical of the _grandes dames de France_ as they have appeared throughout the centuries--those highly born, highly placed, highly cultured women with many natural gifts, whose wit and beauty are the common heritage of us all. I bear that picture of her in her armchair, so beautifully dressed, especially in that white chiffon gown we liked so much, with a single dusky rose at her slender waist, her dark hair so perfectly _coiffé_, her charming welcoming smile, with its hint of suffering borne, remote from miseries, yet knowing pain. I can see the background of bookcases; near by her shining tea-table, and the little low table with its vase of flowers and bibelots, and the latest book with a paper-cutter in it, or some consoling volume whose pages were cut by other generations.[56] [Illustration: MEXICAN NUNS GOING TO MASS Photograph by Ravell]