Dear Julia,

I returned from my summer visit to Ferncliffe, Mrs. William Astor’s country retreat in Rhinebeck two weeks ago, but it already seems like months. New York is still stifling, with not a hint of autumn—or fall, I should say. The grass in the square is scorched to hay, and the leaves on the trees drooping with dust. In fact everyone seems to droop, exhausted by the summer. Even the boarders next door leave for work in the morning with a reluctant trudge rather than their usual brisk stride.

Mouse and Bina (Mary and Davina, to you!) had the house looking pristine for our return. I cannot tell you what a godsend those sisters are—tell Breda she is an angel for recommending them. They showed every sign of being pleased to welcome Marion and me back, though they assured me that they enjoyed the free time and have been regaling me with tales of Coney Island and day trips on the Hudson Bay steamer which sound like far more fun than the sedate picnics and highly uncompetitive archery that Mrs. Astor considers entertainment. Though I really have no grounds for complaint, for I was permitted to try out one of Mr. Astor’s mares, and he deemed me competent enough to grant me the use of her every day, which was a real treat.

Marion continues to enjoy the company of the exuberant Mr. Valentine. I have never before met anyone who could be described as rumbustious, but I think the word was invented just for him. You ask if he is vulgar, and the answer is that you would most certainly think so. He is never going to make Mr. McAllister’s list, that is for sure, though he once told me that if he ever did, he’d slit his own throat! I am no closer to understanding what the various endeavours are that generate his great wealth, though Marion has tried to explain it to me. She has an astonishing grasp of numbers and has even made a little money on the stock exchange here. Don’t ask me what that entails; I think it is like gambling—or as Mr. Valentine puts it, having a bit of a flutter.