The British colony is not a large one. Its head is, of course, our Minister, Sir Conyngham Greene, in whose able hands British interests in Roumania have recently been placed. Keen and active, he has already rearranged our Consular service in Roumania, and placed the Legation on the same footing as those of the other Powers. While every other European nation owns a Legation house in Bucharest, we have none; and while I was in the Roumanian capital he was a fellow-guest at the Hotel du Boulevard. It is understood, however, that the Foreign Office—or the Treasury—have recently been shamed into the necessity of buying a house, and very soon Sir Conyngham will have a fitting residence, as the other representatives of the Powers. Nobody ever deigns to walk in Bucharest. Everybody takes cabs, therefore the streets are filled with vehicular traffic till far into the night. At evening, indeed, Bucharest is at her best. Smart restaurants, with pretty, well-dressed women, cosy theatres, flash café-chantants, and noisy garish cafés abound all over the town, while outside, notably at the Villa Regala, in the centre of a park, smart dinners and suppers are given. The _jeunesse dorée_ are an effeminate and extravagant crowd. Gambling permeates the whole of society, and large sums are lost and won every evening. I know personally one member of the Roumanian Cabinet who thinks nothing of losing or winning a couple or three thousand pounds each week at cards. He plays every afternoon at the Club, and is always open to play any comer for any stake proposed, no matter what it may be. Bucharest is a typical capital of a wealthy, easy-going country. The people are charitable, and spend freely—when they have it. The shop-windows, where the most expensive table delicacies are displayed, show the foreigner the Roumanians’ extravagance in eating, while the dresses one sees on the giddy women-folk are as up to date as any that one notices in the Champs Elysées, the Bois, or at the Opera. Yet amid all this up-to-dateness the old horse-tram still survives and jogs along, and the patient white oxen toil slowly through the streets, dragging their heavy springless carts. Unlike Sofia, or in Belgrade, peasants are seldom met with in the streets of Bucharest. One may go a whole week without coming across a woman in national costume, unless, of course, the market is specially visited. I, however, met, in Bucharest, Mr. Harold Hartley, one of the directors of the Earl’s Court Exhibition, and we made many pleasant excursions into the country together. To the traveller from Western Europe the city is highly interesting and full of curious types, especially of the young elegant, whose present fashion, it seems, is to shave only the front of his chin and cheeks and grow a beard all round, very similar in cut to that of a monkey. [Illustration: The Royal Palace: Bucharest.] [Illustration: Boulevard Elisabeta: Bucharest.]