This is her first visit. I found that she seemed to be cautious about expressing her opinions. She said she was surprised to see how many people in America understood French. "Really?" I answered. "It did not strike me so the other evening when I heard you in 'La Dame aux Camelias.'" "I don't mean the public," she replied. "It apparently understands very little, and the turning of the leaves of the librettos distracts me so much that I sometimes forget my rôle. At any rate, I wait till the leaves have finished rustling. But in society," she added, "I find that almost every one who is presented to me talks very good French." "Well," I answered, "if Boston didn't speak French I should be ashamed of it." She laughed. "Sometimes," she said, "they do make curious mistakes. I am making note of all I can remember. They will be amusing in the book I am writing. A lady said to me, 'What I admire the most in you, madame, _c'est votre température_.'" She meant "temperament." "What did you answer to that?" I asked. "I said, '_Oui, madame, il fait très chaud_,' which fell unappreciated." She is bored with reporters, who besiege her from morning till night. One--a woman--who sat with note-book in hand for ages ("_une éternité_" she said) reporting, the next day sent her the newspaper in which a column was filled with the manner she treated her nails. Not one word about "_mon art_"! "Some of my _admirateurs_" she said, "pay their fabulous compliments through an interpreter." She thought this was ridiculous. When I got up to leave she said, "_Chère_ madame, you know Mr. Longfellow?" "Yes," I replied, "very well." "Could you not arrange that I might make his bust? You can tell him that you know my work, and that I can do it if he will let me."