Saturday, 5 July 1873

At eleven came a young Englishwoman with her mother, for me. She is rather nice but limp. She does not shake one's hand but merely gives it — this does not denote a frank character. She will come to give me three lessons of two hours each per week — six hours per week.
Today is Nathalie Patton's birthday, and at five we went to their house (grey dress), but they were out. After dinner, a short drive and to Rumpelmayer's. Maman and the others to the station, and we took several more turns.
I said that we are giving a ball on my birthday, 12 January; I shall be fifteen. We interrupted one another. Everyone wanted to speak at once; each wanted to set forth his plan. At home we went through all the rooms; everything is already assigned, arranged, decided by us. It will be splendid, this ball.
At lunch, I no longer remember in connection with what — the pigeon shooting, I think — they were talking about how people are addressed. Then my aunt said:
— And why does one say His Grace the Duke of Hamilton? One does not say Count Ferreire, because he is not one, while the great [sic] titles are called by their title.
On hearing his name I did not blush, but my breath failed me; I wanted to pour water and my hands were trembling. I prefer that to blushing! She repeated that fateful name twice. She likes Hamilton — the whole house likes him. Maman is very fond of him. And my aunt speaks of him willingly.

Notes

In English in the original.