Dearest Mamma,--We are here now, so this is where to address your letters.
We went to another hotel first but we could not stand the impudence of the
servants, and having to shout down the telephone for everything instead of
ringing a bell--and here it is much nicer and one is humanly waited on.

America is too quaint. Crowds of reporters came on board to interview us!
We never dreamed that they would bother just private people, but it was
because of the titles, I suppose. Tom was furious but Octavia was
delighted. She said she wanted to see all the American customs and if
talking to reporters was one of them, she wanted that, too. So she was
sweetly gracious and never told them a word of truth.

They were perfectly polite, but they asked direct questions, how we liked
America (we had not landed!), how long we were going to stay, what was our
object in coming there, what we thought of the American divorce, etc., etc.
All but two were the same type: very prominent foreheads, deep set eyes,
white faces, origin South of France or Corsican mixed with Jew to look at,
with the astounding American acuteness added, and all had the expression of
a good terrier after a rat--the most intense concentration.

When we actually landed female ones attacked us, but Octavia who, as you
know, doesn't really care for women, was not nearly so nice to them, and
their articles in the papers about us are virulent!

"Lady Chevenix is a homely looking person with henna-assisted hair and the
true British haughty manner," they put! They were not so disagreeable about
me, but not flattering. Then they snap-shotted us, and Octavia really does
look rather odd, as her nose got out of focus, I suppose, and appears like
Mr. Punch's; underneath is written, "An English Peeress and Society