A footman led the way to my carriage, and I drove through London with a heavy heart. Everything looked dark and dismal, and when I reached the house—77, Chester Square—I did not want to get out of my carriage. The door of the house was wide open, though, and in the brilliantly lighted hall I could see what looked like all the flowers on earth arranged in baskets, bouquets, and huge bunches. I got out of the carriage and entered the house in which I was to live for the next six weeks. All the branches seemed to be stretching out their flowers to me. “Have you the cards that came with all these flowers?” I asked my manservant. “Yes,” he replied. “I have put them together on a tray. All of them are from Paris, from madame’s friends there. This one is the only bouquet from here.” He handed me an enormous one, and on the card with it, I read the words: “Welcome!—Henry Irving.” I went all through the house and it seemed to me very dismal looking. I visited the garden, but the damp seemed to go through me, and my teeth chattered when I came in again. That night, when I went to sleep, my heart was heavy with foreboding, as though I were on the eve of some misfortune. The following day was given up to receiving journalists. I wanted to see them all at the same time, but Mr. Jarrett objected to this. The man was a veritable advertising genius. I had no idea of it at that time. He had made me some very good offers for America, and although I had refused them, I nevertheless held a very high opinion of him, on account of his intelligence, his comic humor, and my need of being piloted in this new country. “No,” he said, “if you receive them all together, they will all be furious, and you will get some wretched articles; you must receive them one after the other.” Thirty-seven journalists came that day, and Jarrett insisted on my seeing every one of them. He stayed in the room and saved the situation when I said anything foolish. I spoke English very badly, and some of the men spoke French very badly. Jarrett translated my answers to them. I remember perfectly well that all of them began with: “Well, mademoiselle, what do you think of London?” I had arrived the previous evening at nine o’clock, and the first of these journalists asked me this question at ten in the morning. I had drawn my curtain back on getting up, and all I knew of London was Chester Square, a small square of somber verdure, in the midst of which was a black statue, and the horizon bounded by an ugly church. I really could not answer the question, but Jarrett was quite prepared for this, and I learned the following morning that “I was most enthusiastic about the beauty of London, that I had already seen a number of the public buildings,” etc., etc. Toward five o’clock, Hortense Damian arrived. She was a charming woman, and a favorite in London society. She had come to inform me that the Duchess of —— and Lady R—— would call on me at half past five.