odd skull of a face and bony figure by way of illustrating George’s increase of size. ‘Grâce à vos bons dîners’ was, of course, all I could say in answer. ‘Ah, madame, j’en suis enchanté!’ and he went off so like the way in which Mathews used to go off the stage as a negro. I am very fond of St. Cloud—George says because he is the only person who is the least confidential with me. He never associates with any of his fellow-servants. All kitchens in India are distinct buildings, at some distance from the house, and in the hot weather I wanted St. Cloud not to cross the compound, but to send me a written bill of fare. He said no; he thought a few minutes’ conversation with madame did him good; he liked to tell her of the ‘bêtes et fainéants’ who composed his kitchen establishment.
We are going to give a ball here on Friday.
My dearest Sister,—I have at last found a good subject for a letter, something worth
