Yesterday, Mrs. Stuyvesant-Fish rang up suggesting that we all meet up for cool, refreshing beverages at a local gin hall. The prospect of seeing dear Mamie was almost as appealing as seeing the gin. Sadly, she never showed up (although the gin did). When we arrived home, Leopoldo asked, "Please contact Mamie-dear and make sure she didn't end up in a gutter." I couldn't help but replying, "Just where do you expect to find her." But I dutifully dashed off a quick note of concern, which she returned this morning with some lame excuse of working too late; she was so much more easily understood when she did nothing but drink all day. She was off on a rampage with Mrs. Wilmerding (nee' Vanderbilt) and, I wisely decided to stay home and plan Mr. Astor's dinner. Late in the afternoon, a garbled message arrived which made no sense at all; it was a monument to drunk writing. She babbled to the point that I had to answer that her usually clouded mind had obviously turned to molasses. (I dug out this old photo of Mamie-dear, haughtily wearing a tiara from the Salon du Barry. Mamie shuns photography these days as she tries to shave some of her social magnificence.)

Mr. Astor will have chilled avocado and cilantro soup, Cajun-seasoned pork chops, corn on the cob, and a special dessert of Mandarin oranges and sherbet. There is every bit of truth in a happy husband is one whose every sense is constantly titillated.