Hurlingham is very pretty and there were quantities of people there. We saw very well from the top of the coach, and I must say the game was beautifully played. Of course the men all rode perfectly, but the ponies were so clever, quite as keen as the riders, and seemed to know all about it. We got back to the Embassy about 8, and happily had no one to dinner, but sat on the balcony all the evening, W. smoking, and talking about his conference, which is not going smoothly. The English are stiff, and the people at home unreasonable. I can't imagine how French and English can ever work together--they are so absolutely unlike. #London#, July, 1884. W. went to Paris this morning and H. and I are left to our own devices. I dined alone at the Speaker's and it was pleasant. After dinner we went down to the terrace and walked and sat about. It was so warm that we all sat there with bare arms and necks. It was so pretty; boats passing on the river, all the bridges lighted, and so cool and dark on the terrace that one could hardly recognise the people as they walked up and down. I went back to the Embassy to get H., and we went to Devonshire House, where there was a big reception--all the world there, and the house very handsome, a fine staircase; Lord Hartington receiving us, as the Duke is an old man and couldn't stand the fatigue. [Illustration: M and Mme Waddington and Their Son From a photograph by Cesar Paris] _To G. K. S._ #Albert Gate#, February 9, 1885. This morning we have the news of the fall of Khartoum and the murder of Gordon. W. is in the country trying horses, so I put on my hat and went out into the Row to hear what was going on. It was crowded with people talking and gesticulating. The Conservatives furious, "such a ministry a disgrace to the country," and a tall man on a handsome chestnut, talking to Admiral C. most energetically, "I am a moderate man myself, but I would willingly give a hand to hang Gladstone on this tree." They are much disgusted--and with reason. Monday, February 23, 1885. It seems to be my week, Dear Gertrude, so I will at any rate begin this morning. We are now in full tide of dinners and routs, which last is the most frightful species of entertainment that the human mind has ever devised. They consist of 400 or 500 people packed close in a house which holds about 150--so warm in the rooms that you almost stifle--and so cold on the staircase and halls where the door is always open wide that I always wonder how I can escape without a fluxion de poitrine. We had a banquet ourselves last Tuesday, Harcourts Muensters, Corks, etc., followed by a mild dance, which was however successful, as Pourtales, who is a gay little fellow, led a spirited cotillon, and there were 22 couples. I performed 2 quadrilles, which, naturally, is the extent of my dancing now, unless I take a stray turn with an old partner.