You have doubtless known and detested hotel children--the spoiled darlings of elevator boys and hotel habitués; so you will be grieved to know that you have raised one. At my time of life--it is only a second childhood, I know; but this month at Pau has given me a luscious taste of being petted. The Hôtel de Londres is small and English. Every one greets every one else in the dining-room, every one shares in hotel newspapers, and every one promenades on the boulevard. Getting acquainted is easy and interesting, but for my first two weeks I did nothing but sleep and read. My third week was the week that Harold and the boys left, and as they didn't get their definite orders until Saturday, we had to say farewell nearly every day. This week has been my week of expecting a telegram, so I have steadily made the best of the last moment, and really feel that some of those wonderful English people are my friends. Mr. and Mrs. Moody are my favorites. She is tall and majestic and her face is a mass of little wrinkles like the ripples when you drop a pebble in a pool. Mr. Moody is little and bald and white-haired and coughing, and must always have his rug. He has explained the Crimean War to me from A to Izzard and traced a genealogy of the French kings by memory. Then there's Mr. Heyworth, a sort of a William Gillette man from India, who was torpedoed on the Arabic; a young French aviator and his wife, very good-looking both of them; and a Russian lady who in a desperation of loneliness took a great shine to me, which I successfully counteracted by having her teach me the Russian alphabet. Last of all, there was a little French girl,--Bernadotte,--whose mother, an American, died three weeks ago, and whose father is at the front. If she had had any less than two governesses to keep her away from people, I shouldn't have had a show as the hotel baby.