I wonder if you are as cold as I am to-day. I have been driving about shivering in the open carriage and my seal-skin felt like a foulard. I think I got cold last night. We had a pleasant dinner at Lord Knutsford's. I had Count Kufstein next to me. He was for years in Paris at the Austrian Embassy just when I was first married and making my debut in the official world. He is here now for the sugar conference, and we were delighted to go back to old times, as he knows everybody in Paris of all kinds: Imperialists, Royalists, and Republicans. It wasn't always easy for a foreigner to get along and not offend somebody. On our way home W. suggested that we should go in for a moment to the W. H. Smiths' who had a big political reception. In a weak moment I agreed. It is not really necessary to go to those big parties--one can be written down in the book by one of the secretaries, or give the names to the lady of the _Morning Post_ who sits with her hat and coat behind the door, and puts down as many names as she can manage. I should think she would have perpetual rheumatism, as the hall door is open and the draught something awful. The moment I set my foot in the hall my heart sank, such a crowd on the stairs, I should think all the House of Commons and all their female relations. There was a double current going and coming, and I was thankful not to have my dress torn to bits. We met Tom Leigh coming down. He said he had been 15 minutes on the same step. However we did manage to get upstairs--tried to find either host or hostess, but they had evidently left the door--so after struggling through one or two rooms packed tight with people I discovered a high wooden stool behind one of the doors which had evidently been used for lighting the candles and been forgotten, so I seated myself on that and told W. I would wait for him there, as he thought he would try and find some one of the family. I sat there some little time rather interested in the stream of perfectly unknown faces which passed until I was rescued by Correa, the Brazilian Minister, who couldn't believe that it was really the French Ambassadress sitting alone on a three-legged stool behind the door. W. came back in about a quarter of an hour not having seen any one he knew, and then we started down the staircase where we had the same struggle, and the cold air blowing in upon my bare shoulders. I was cross when I got home--however I suppose exactly the same thing happens when we have a big reception, as the Embassy is not nearly large enough. The other night when the Duke of Cambridge dined with us we had a party afterward. W. went down to the door with him and never got up again, there was such a crowd on the stairs. _To H. L. K._ #London#, May 19, 1888.