Ada caught my neck by her arm. She squandered her kisses on me. (It was my first taste of the kiss.) We two young ladies in wanton garments rolled down happily on the floor. 2nd—If I could be a gentleman for just one day! I would rest myself on the hospitable chair of a barber shop—barber shop, drug store and candy store are three beauties on the street—like a prince of leisure, and dream something great, while the man is busy with a razor. I am envious of the gentleman who may bathe in such a purple hour. I never rest. American ladies neither! Each one of them looks worried as if she expected the door-bell any moment. I suppose it is the penalty of being a woman. 3rd—My little heart was flooded with patriotism. It is our Mikado’s birthday. I sang “The Age of Our Sovereign.” I shouted “Ten thousand years! Banzai! Ban banzai!” My uncle and I hurried to the Japanese Consulate to celebrate this grand day. 4th—The gentlemen of San Francisco are gallant. They never permit the ladies—even a black servant is in the honourable list of “ladies”—to stand in the car. If Oriental gentlemen could demean themselves like that for just one day! I should not mind a bit if one proposed to me even. I love a handsome face. They part their hair in the middle. They have inherited no bad habit of biting their finger-nails. I suppose they offer a grace before each meal. Their smile isn’t sardonic, and their laughter is open. I have no dispute with their mustaches and their blue eyes. But I am far from being an admirer of their red faces. Japs are pygmies. I fear that the Americans are too tall. My future husband is not allowed to be over five feet five inches. His nose should be of the cast of Robert Stevenson’s. Each one of them carries a high look. He may be the President at the next election, he seems to say. How mean that only one head is in demand! A directory and a dictionary are kind. The ’Merican husband is like them, I imagine. I have no gentleman friend yet. To pace alone on the street is a melancholy discarded sight. What do you do if your shoe-string comes untied? I have seen a gentleman fingering the shoestrings of a lady. How glad he was to serve again, when she said, “That’s too tight!” Shall my uncle fill such a part? Poor uncle! Old company, however, isn’t style. He is forty-five. Why can I not choose one to hire from among the “bully” young men loitering around a cigar-stand? 5th—My uncle was going out in a black frock-coat and tea-coloured trousers. I insisted that his coat and trousers didn’t match. How can a man be so ridiculous? I declared that it was as poor taste as for a darkey to wear a red ribbon in her smoky hair. Uncle surrendered. He said, “Hei, hei, hei!” Goo’ boy! He dismissed the great tea-colour. 6th—We had a shower. The city dipped in a bath.