stepmother she never gave one a glimpse of the good side. Now the daughter argued that these people always have a good side. The son said they did not, that they were described just as they were. The daughter said she had studied music in Berlin and Leipzig, and had lived in three German families, and that she had often endured a great deal from people exactly like Fräulein Schmidt’s stepmother; but she had always found that they were at the same time pathetic in their kindness at times. Fräulein Schmidt never gave you a hint of a kind side. She merely said these people starved the soul--which was nonsense; nobody, she added, starves one’s soul, one does that oneself. The mother said that Fräulein Schmidt probably understood the good side of the boring people, and did not mention it because it is not so amusing to describe. The daughter answered that it was interesting, if not amusing, and often touching. Fräulein Schmidt thought herself superior to everybody, because she read Matthew Arnold. The son said that as far as he got he thought that the people described were just like those whom he had known at Heidelberg; that Fräulein Schmidt was charming and Mr. Anstruther loathsome. “Yes,” said the girl, “but she makes him loathsome on purpose. One wonders how Rose-Marie could ever have liked him for one second. She flatters herself, too, by being careful to let us know the old man thought she was like Hebe. She was evidently not a bit like Hebe.” And so the discussion continued without end. We reached Nijni-Novgorod the next morning at eight. I took a cab. “Drive,” I said, “to the best hotel.” “There is the Hôtel Rossia at the top of the town and the Hôtel Petersburg at the bottom,” the cabman answered. “Which is the best?” I asked. “The Hôtel Rossia is the best at the top of the town,” he answered, “and the Hôtel Petersburg is the best at the bottom.” “Which is the most central?” I asked. “The Rossia is the most central at the top and the Petersburg is the most central at the bottom.” “Which is nearest the Fair?” “They are neither near the Fair.” “Are there no hotels near the Fair?” “There are no hotels near the Fair _in the town_.” We drove to the Rossia, a long way, up a very steep hill past the Kremlin: a hill like Windsor Hill, only twice as long. The Kremlin is like Windsor, supposing the outside walls of Windsor had never been restored and the Castle were taken away. When we got to the hotel the cabman said: “This part of the town is deserted in summer; nobody lives here; everybody lives near the Fair.” “But I said I wanted to be in the Fair,” I answered. “Oh!” he answered, “of course if you want to be _in_ the Fair there are plenty of hotels in the Fair.” So we drove down again, right into the lower part of the town, and thence across a large wooden bridge into the Fair.