PENELOPE'S ENGLISH EXPERIENCES Being extracts from the commonplace book of Penelope Hamilton by Kate Douglas Wiggin. To my Boston friend Salemina. No Anglomaniac, but a true Briton. Contents. Part First--In Town. I. The weekly bill. II. The powdered footman smiles. III. Eggs a la coque. IV. The English sense of humour. V. A Hyde Park Sunday. VI. The English Park Lover. VII. A ducal tea-party. VIII. Tuppenny travels in London. IX. A Table of Kindred and Affinity. X. Apropos of advertisements. XI. The ball on the opposite side. XII. Patricia makes her debut. XIII. A Penelope secret. XIV. Love and lavender. Part Second--In the Country. XV. Penelope dreams. XVI. The decay of Romance. XVII. Short stops and long bills. XVIII. I meet Mrs. Bobby. XIX. The heart of the artist. XX. A canticle to Jane. XXI. I remember, I remember. XXII. Comfort Cottage. XXIII. Tea served here. XXIV. An unlicensed victualler. XXV. Et ego in Arcadia vixit. Part First--In Town. Chapter I. The weekly bill. Smith's Hotel, 10 Dovermarle Street. Here we are in London again,--Francesca, Salemina, and I. Salemina is a philanthropist of the Boston philanthropists limited. I am an artist. Francesca is-- It is very difficult to label Francesca. She is, at her present stage of development, just a nice girl; that is about all: the sense of humanity hasn't dawned upon her yet; she is even unaware that personal responsibility for the universe has come into vogue, and so she is happy. Francesca is short of twenty years old, Salemina short of forty, I short of thirty. Francesca is in love, Salemina never has been in love, I never shall be in love. Francesca is rich, Salemina is well-to-do, I am poor. There we are in a nutshell. We are not only in London again, but we are again in Smith's private hotel; one of those deliciously comfortable and ensnaring hostelries in Mayfair which one enters as a solvent human being, and which one leaves as a bankrupt, no matter what may be the number of ciphers on one's letter of credit; since the greater one's apparent supply of wealth, the greater the demand made upon it. I never stop long in London without determining to give up my art for a private hotel. There must be millions in it, but I fear I lack some of the essential qualifications for success. I never could have the heart, for example, to charge a struggling young genius eight shillings a week for two candles, and then eight shillings the next week for the same two candles, which the struggling young genius, by dint of vigorous economy, had managed to preserve to a decent height. No, I could never do it, not even if I were certain that she would squander the sixteen shillings in Bond Street fripperies instead of laying them up against the rainy day.