it's the American air; if it is, all I can say is that the American
air is very charming. It makes me impatient and restless, and I sit
scribbling here because I am so eager to arrive, and the time passes
better if I occupy myself. I am in the saloon, where we have our
meals, and opposite to me is a big round porthole, wide open, to let
in the smell of the land. Every now and then I rise a little and
look through it, to see whether we are arriving. I mean in the Bay,
you know, for we shall not come up to the city till dark. I don't
want to lose the Bay; it appears that it's so wonderful. I don't
exactly understand what it contains, except some beautiful islands;
but I suppose you will know all about that. It is easy to see that
these are the last hours, for all the people about me are writing
letters to put into the post as soon as we come up to the dock. I
believe they are dreadful at the custom-house, and you will remember
how many new things you persuaded mamma that (with my pre-occupation
of marriage) I should take to this country, where even the prettiest
girls are expected not to go unadorned. We ruined ourselves in
Paris (that is part of mamma's solemnity); mais au moins je serai
belle! Moreover, I believe that mamma is prepared to say or to do
anything that may be necessary for escaping from their odious
duties; as she very justly remarks, she can't afford to be ruined
twice. I don't know how one approaches these terrible douaniers,
but I mean to invent something very charming. I mean to say,
"Voyons, Messieurs, a young girl like me, brought up in the
strictest foreign traditions, kept always in the background by a
very superior mother--la voila; you can see for yourself!--what is
it possible that she should attempt to smuggle in? Nothing but a
few simple relics of her convent!" I won't tell them that my
convent was called the Magasin du Bon Marche. Mamma began to scold
me three days ago for insisting on so many trunks, and the truth is