Passavant is a delightful companion; he isn’t at all stuck up about his title; he likes me to call him Robert; and the name he has invented for me is Olive--isn’t it charming? He does all he can to make me forget his age and I assure you he does. My mother was rather alarmed at the idea of my going away with him, for she hardly knows him at all. I hesitated at first for fear of distressing her. Before your letter came I had almost given it up. Vincent persuaded her, however, and your letter suddenly gave me courage. We spent the last days before starting in doing a round of shops. Passavant is so generous that he is always wanting to give me things and I had to stop him all the time. But he thought my wretched rags frightful; shirts, ties, socks--nothing I had pleased him; he kept repeating that if we were to spend some time together, it would be too painful to him not to see me properly dressed--that is to say, as he likes. Naturally everything we bought was sent to his house, for fear of making my mother uncomfortable. He himself is exquisitely elegant; but above all his taste is very good, and a great many things which I used to think quite bearable now seem odious to me. You can’t imagine how amusing he was in the shops. He is really very witty. I should like to give you an idea of it. One day, we were at Brentano’s, where he was having a fountain pen mended. There was a huge Englishman just behind him who wanted to be served before his turn, and as Robert pushed him away rather roughly, he began to jabber something or other in his lingo; Robert turned round very calmly and said: “It’s not a bit of use. I don’t understand English.” The Englishman was in a rage and answered back in the purest French: “Then you ought to.” To which Robert answered with a polite smile: “I told you it wasn’t a bit of use.” The Englishman was boiling over, but he hadn’t another word to say. It was killing. Another day we were at the Olympia. During the _entr’acte_ we were in the promenade with a lot of prostitutes walking round. Two of them--rather decayed looking creatures--accosted him: “Stand us a glass of beer, dearie?” We sat down at a table with them. “Waiter! A glass of beer for these ladies.” “And for you and the young gentleman, sir?” “Oh, for us? We’ll take champagne,” he said carelessly. He ordered a bottle of Moët, and we blew it all to ourselves. You should have seen the poor things’ faces!... I think he has a loathing for prostitutes. He confided to me that he has never been inside a brothel, and gave me to understand that he would be very angry with me if I ever went. So you see he’s perfectly all right in spite of his airs and his cynical talk--as, for instance, when he says he calls it a “dull day” if he hasn’t met at least five people before lunch, with whom he wants to go to bed. (I must tell you by the way, that I haven’t tried again ... you know what.)