He told me a little about my family; there is, he says, a red-haired, freckled strain that is very strong, and a black-haired strain that was more delicate----. Winston is, of course, the red-haired strain, and it has come out with great force in his children. Hugh’s[3] child, too, has the red hair and freckles. Travers, referring to Shane Leslie, said he did not recognize the Jerome in him. “We were never dreamers----,” he said, “always practical and forceful.” He told me rather a sweet story about Henry James, whom he apparently took down to the East Side to show him around. To meet him, he invited Meyer Shonfield, a Jewish sweatshop operator. He thought Meyer was the most opposite pole to Henry, and that it would be interesting. To Meyer, he said, “Study this man Henry James, he is a de-nationalized American, and I want your opinion of him.” Henry, he says, was at his best that night; he, so to speak, threw off his veil, and was, what so seldom happened, the simple unmasked Henry. Afterwards, when they had parted, Meyer turned to Travers, and with a glow of enthusiasm, said, “He’s a real man! ain’t he----?” Surely as high a tribute as our beloved Henry ever received. Meanwhile I feel I am just beginning to get my bearings and to understand the psychology of New York! I am worn out going from one place to another that I am asked to, and the odd spare moments are spent in writing little social notes of refusal, or answering the telephone. It seems a terrible waste of time. America has a genius for entertaining, but I came here for work, not for food. At parties there are so many people, and they all talk so loud that one cannot hear one’s neighbor speak. One comes out as one went in, a stranger, knowing no names, and remembering few faces, and having eaten too richly. Everyone looks rather alike, the women have a curious expression of amiability that makes it almost impossible for the submerged stranger to remember any one as anything special. The face of the average American woman has a curious serenity, the mother of a son of 18 may look as if she were the mother of a son of 8--I suppose they live more sheltered lives, and do not show the marks of battle as other women do. I must say the American man is extremely good to them. Any man in the world can be chivalrous towards the woman he is in love with, but the American man is chivalrous to the woman he isn’t in love with; and the woman takes it for granted! At seven o’clock I dined at my first public dinner. It was the Society of the Genesee at the Commodore Hotel, and I was the guest of Mr. Louis Wiley. I had Judge Parker on one side of me, McEvoy was at our table and Emil Fuchs, and Guardiabassé, otherwise no one I knew. It was a huge affair. To my amazement they began with a long grace! The Puritanism that still survives in these people is remarkable.