There is nothing to see now in the streets, as the whole population is out of town, and the rumbling of carriages has ceased for the moment. W. is lying back in an arm-chair, with a cigar, in his shirt sleeves, groaning with the heat; and very hot it must be to reduce him to that state. I have a theory that no Waddington knows what heat means. No words can describe what I feel. Certainly fine feathers make fine birds, and I think no one would recognize the gold embroidered, bejewelled couple that went in the coupe d'Orsay to the gala dinner at the Palace. 11 o'clock. We are just in from the Consul's dinner, and as it is cooler in the salon with the windows open than in my room, I will finish my letter to-night. We start to-morrow morning at 9 o'clock for Cologne and Paris. Now that we are getting so near I am very homesick for the boy, and for my own house. The constant moving about and living in hotels for the last fortnight has been tiring. I have got nothing left either to say to anybody--I have described the Coronation so many times that it is almost mechanical now--the words come by themselves--a steady stream, like the paper that rolls off the telegrams. I think I should never do for a _permanent_ Ambassadress if six weeks of functions have exhausted me physically and mentally. As usual tho' last impressions are the strongest. I have already forgotten Moscow a little, and see the journey from Petersburg to Stockholm more clearly than anything else. I am sorry now that I didn't write a regular journal. Almost all the gentlemen did, and it would have been no trouble if I had made up my mind to it, and written regularly, but unfortunately my writing-table at Maison Klein was on the court, and as soon as I established myself all sorts of interesting things immediately began to take place under the window, and the ink was bad and thick, and I got it all over my fingers, and even up in my hair--I hate so to write.