certificate says). She is not what our fancy painted her. Neither is
the devil as black as he is painted (I don't know why I associate them
in my mind). We had painted this cook white. I shudder to think how the
White House must have lived in those years when she did the cooking.
Our dinners are simply awful. Although she has _carte blanche_ to
provide anything and everything she wants, our dinners are failures. I
look the fact in the face and blush. Our musical parties are better
when I do the cooking and Johan does the serving--I mean when I sing
and he fills the gaps. The diplomats groan. "Think," they say, "what a
finished cook would do with all the delicious things they have
here--all these wonderful birds and meats and vegetables, and only the
one sauce!"

The charity concert, of which I was _dame patronesse_, went off with
success. We made a great deal of money. M. de Schlözer paid twenty
dollars for his ticket. My chorus covered itself with glory and was
encored. As the concert finished at ten, we adjourned to the Zamaconas'
(Minister of Mexico) first ball, and I hope, for them, their only one.
It was one of those _soirées_ where people appropriate the forks and
spoons. It cost, they say, ten thousand dollars. The assemblage was
promiscuous, to say the least. Every one who asked for an invitation
got one, and went. The Minister had hired the house next the Legation,
and cut doors into it so that there should be plenty of room, but even
then there was not sufficient space to contain the crowd of
miscellaneous guests. There were two orchestras, but no one wanted to
dance. Every one wandered about through the rooms or lolled in the
grottoes, which were lighted with different-colored lamps. In every
corner were fountains of cologne, around which the gentler sex stood in
crowds saturating their handkerchiefs--some of which had cross-stitch
initials in red thread. Mirrors were placed at the end of each room to