At first it offended me to receive an invitation--or a command--to
appear at a formal function, with an accompanying slip telling exactly
what to wear. Then I laughed about it.

Finally I rebelled. On the plea of ill health, I made Tom do the social
honors for me, while Eve and I did the museums and the galleries and the
music fetes. Years later I went back to Vienna, and I did not discredit
my country. But I never loved the city. I enjoyed its art, its
fascinating shops, its picturesque streets and people, and its beautiful
women. But for me Vienna has the faults of France and England, the
poverty and arrogance of London, and the frivolity of Paris, without
their redeeming qualities.


So I was glad to return to England. The second day in London, Tom took
me to an exhibition important in the art world, or at least in the
official life of London. Everybody who was somebody was there. I saw
the Princess of Wales and the Marquis of Salisbury, who was then
Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. I saw Mr. Balfour, so handsome
and gracious that I refused to believe there had ever been cause to call
him "Bloody Balfour." There was something kingly about him--yet he was
simply Mr. Balfour. Years afterward I realized that to know Mr. Balfour
is either to worship him or hate him. No one takes the middle course.
I had begun to have a beautiful time that afternoon.

I felt happy, acutely conscious of my blessings and of one coming
blessing in particular. Mr. Gladstone joined us, and Sir Henry Irving
came over to speak to Eve. She told him I had just said that England
had a mold for handsome men. Irving was interesting and striking,
though certainly not handsome; but he took the compliment to himself,