I left Agnès to settle everything and jumped into bed. This morning I woke early, and had the loveliest cup of chocolate, but such a silly bath, and almost cold water. There are no housemaids, and nothing is done with precise regularity like at home, although they are so rich. Agnès had to fish for everything of that sort herself, and such a lot of talking went on in the passage between her and the _valet de chambre_, before I even got this teeny tiny tray to splash in. However, I did get dressed at last, and went for a walk in the garden--not a soul about but a few gardeners. The begonias are magnificent, but there is no look of park beyond the garden, or nice deer and things that we would have for such a house in England. It is more like a sort of big villa. I saw Jean at last in the distance, going round and round a large pond on his bicycle. He did look odd! in a thick striped jersey, and the tightest knickerbockers; almost as low as a "scorcher." He jumped off and made a most polite bow, and explained he was doing it for exercise. But I do think that an idiotic reason--don't you, Mamma? It would be just as much exercise on a road. However, he assured me that, like that, he knew exactly how many miles he went on the flat before breakfast, so I suppose it was all right. I saw he wanted to continue his ride, so I walked on, and presently came to a summer-house, where Victorine and the _dame de compagnie_ were doing their morning reading. There were also the two little girls building castles out of a heap of sand, and with them the most hideous German maid you ever saw. They are queer-looking little monkeys, Yolande is like Jean, but Marie--there are three years between them--is as black as ink--but where was I? Oh, yes!--well, by this time I was so hungry I could have eaten them, German _bonne_ and all! Fortunately Godmamma turned up, and we strolled back to _déjeûner_. Héloise was in the salon, and she is charming, such a contrast to the rest of the party. She was beautifully dressed and so _chic_. We took to each other at once, she has not picked up that solid married look like Jean, so perhaps it is only the husbands who get it in France. There was a good deal of ceremony going in to breakfast. Jean gave his mother his arm, and we trotted behind. The dining-room is a perfect room, except there is no carpet, and the food was lovely, only I do hate to see a great hand covered with a white cotton glove, plopping a dish down on the lighted thing in the middle, so that one has to look at the next course all the time one is finishing the last one. The way in which the two little monkeys and the German maid devoured their breakfast quite took one's appetite away. There seemed to be numbers of men-servants, who wore white cotton gloves, and their liveries buttoned up to the throat, which takes away that nice clean-shirt-look of our servants at home. [Sidenote: _French Servants_]