But you know Paris is so very amusing, and if only Harold remains good-
natured about it, I shall be content to wait for the caravan (that's what
he calls mamma and the children). The person who keeps the
establishment, or whatever they call it, is rather odd, and _exceedingly
foreign_; but she is wonderfully civil, and is perpetually sending to my
door to see if I want anything. The servants are not at all like English
servants, and come bursting in, the footman (they have only one) and the
maids alike, at all sorts of hours, in the _most sudden way_. Then when
one rings, it is half an hour before they come. All this is very
uncomfortable, and I daresay it will be worse at Hyeres. There, however,
fortunately, we shall have our own people.
There are some very odd Americans here, who keep throwing Harold into
fits of laughter. One is a dreadful little man who is always sitting
over the fire, and talking about the colour of the sky. I don't believe
he ever saw the sky except through the window--pane. The other day he
took hold of my frock (that green one you thought so nice at Homburg) and
told me that it reminded him of the texture of the Devonshire turf.
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