The next day, March 9th, 1900, a luncheon party was given at the Mansion House by the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress to the members of the Executive Committee of the International Associations of the Press. Among others I received an invitation. When an alderman is elected Lord Mayor, he and his family take up their residence at the Mansion House for a year. There is a charming suite of apartments at the top of the house for their reception, and all they have to take with them is their private house-linen; everything else is found. The servants are supplied, but as the Lord Mayor _pro tem._ pays their wages, he can dismiss them at his pleasure. This rarely occurs, however, especially among the upper servants, who positively nurse the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress and steer them clear of shoals during their year of office. Arrived at the state door of the Mansion House, where magnificent servants in blue velvet and gold trappings, white silk, and powdered heads, took our cloaks, the guests ascended the red-carpeted staircase to the chief corridor. Here, at the far end, between two splendid thrones, stood the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress. The former wore a black Court dress, with his chain of office, and a wonderful locket of diamonds and enamel. On my name being announced, he most graciously shook hands, and remarked, “I believe I am to have the pleasure of sitting next you.” Evidently a Lord Mayor is not devoid of tact, judging by this small incident. The City Marshal, resplendent in scarlet uniform, the Mace-bearer in black robes with sable cap, many well-known City dignitaries, and various officials stood around; among others being Mr. Sheriff (afterwards Alderman Sir) William Treloar, who was later a most popular Lord Mayor himself. Some hundred and fifty people had been received when luncheon was announced. The Lord Mayor offered his arm to Mademoiselle Humbert, the daughter of one of the French Deputies and editor of _L’Éclair_, and the late Sir Hugh Gilzean Reid, one of the originators of evening papers, was allotted to me. We formed into a procession and marched to the big banqueting hall. A long table was arrayed down the room. At the side centre sat the Lord Mayor, in a veritable throne of red velvet and gilding. It was a magnificent setting, for behind him, along a large part of the room, a sort of red-baize-covered sideboard was erected, which literally groaned under gold plate. Tankards, cups, swords, and bowls in number were here displayed, the collection of hundreds of years of City wealth. We began with the renowned turtle soup, and I ventured to ask the Lord Mayor if that were part of the City religion, at which he laughed.