It is curious how one feels about France, or at least how I feel about it. For all of six weeks I had been rejoicing in the charms and the virtues of the English. London is a great city--splendid--the intellectual capital of the world. Manchester and the north represent as forceful a manufacturing realm as the world holds, there is no doubt of that. The quaintness and sweetness of English country life is not to be surpassed for charm and beauty. But France has fifty times the spirit and enthusiasm of England. After London and the English country it seems strangely young and vital. France is often spoken of as decadent--but I said to myself, “Good Lord, let us get some of this decadence, and take it home with us. It is such a cheerful thing to have around.” I would commend it to the English particularly. On the way over Barfleur had been giving me additional instructions. I was to stay on board when the boat arrived and signal a facteur who would then come and get my luggage. I was to say to him, “_Sept colis_,” whereupon he would gather up the bundles and lead the way to the dock. I was to be sure and get his number, for all French facteurs were scoundrels, and likely to rob you. I did exactly as I was told, while Barfleur went forward to engage a section, first class, and to see that we secured places in the dining-car for the first service. Then he returned and found me on the dock, doing my best to keep track of the various pieces of luggage, while the facteur did his best to secure the attention of a customs inspector.