I walked down from my private apartments in The Palace to see Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish with her hand on Mr. Astor's shoulder. I paused and glared, and she put both hands on her hips positioning herself in a socially combative stage; it was what I might expect a great, white bull to look like when I entered the arena. "Tremors I can put up with," she snorted, "But, 'a lady of sizable social weight' is way too much". I assured the grand dame that it was all in good humor, and she agreed to a settlement of fourteen "lemonades" (it's amazing what white people settle for these days). We talked about how the social life will now just start again, when I somehow don't remember it ending; Leopoldo was always stroking my hand in her presence to avoid any distress. She talked of the great costumes to come this Halloween, and I had to remind her that her last one had her in the back of a pick-up truck on a bale of hay (which is so aristocratic; in the late eighteen century ladies of breeding dressed as chambermaids for fancy dress balls). Our costume ideas brought a gasp from the great lady, but that secret is not to be made public, yet.

Leaving, we saw a rather trashy white girl in black stilettos walking across Thirteenth Street at The Cardozo. She was carefully raising one foot, putting it down with balance, shifting her unfortunate weight, and doing the same with the other. I said--perhaps too loudly--"Oh, dear; I don't think she will make it." And, the woman of a black couple crossing against her shouted, "No, baby, she's just learning to walk."

It topped off our afternoon.