Sunday
Last night we dined on the Essex, to which Admiral Cradock has transferred his flag, the Suffolk having gone to Bermuda for a new coat of paint and other furbishings. Admiral Cradock is always the same delightful friend and companion. I played bridge till a late hour, with the admiral, Hohler, and Captain Watson. Watson has just come from Berlin, where for three years he was naval attaché. I saw many photographs of old friends—the Granvilles, Sir Edward Goschen, the Grews, the Kaiser. After a rather uncertain trip back to the shore, Hohler, Nelson, and myself threaded our way along the dark interstices of the Vera Cruz wharves and terminal tracks to the car—I, in long dress and thin slippers, bowed to the norte.
We can’t get out to the Florida, Captain Rush in command, on account of the high sea. I went to Mass with Ryan in the cathedral, which they have painted a hideous, cold gray, with white trimmings, since I saw it last. Then it had its belle patiné of pinkish-brown, that shone like bronze in the setting sun, and it was beautiful at all hours. However, the winds and the storms and the hot sun will again beautify man’s hideous work.