And I missed some other hundred lines. 11th—A letter from the minister arrived. (I’d be a postman, by the way, if I were a man. A noble work that is to deliver around the love and “gokigen ukagai.”) I clipped off the Mexican stamp. I will make a stamp book for my boy who may be born when I become a wife. Before opening the letter I pressed it to my ear. My imaginative ear heard his illustrious “Ha, ha, ha——” rolling out. How I missed his happy laughter! Can he now pronounce a “How do?” in Mexican? 12th—It surprises me to learn that many an American is born and dies in a hotel. Such a life—however large rooms you may possess—is not distinguishable, in my opinion, from that of a bird in a cage. Is hotel-living a recent fashion? Don’t say so! The business locality—like the place where this Palace Hotel takes its seat—does not afford a stomachful of respectable air. I preferred some hospitable boarding house in a quiet street, where I might even step up and down in nude feet. I wished to occupy a chamber where the morning sun could steal in and shake my sleepy little head with golden fingers as my beloved mama might do. We will move to the “high-toned” boarding house of Mrs. Willis this afternoon. Her house is placed on the high hill of California Street. I am grateful there is no car quaking along there. My uncle says I shall have a whole lot of millionaires for neighbours. California must be one dignified street. The Chinese colony is close at hand from Mrs. Willis’,—the exotic exposition brilliant with green and yellow colour. The incense surges. So cute is the sparrow-eyed Asiatic girl—such a “karako”—with a small cue on only one side of the head. Dear Oriental town! Good luck, I pray, my Palace Hotel! Sayonara, my graceful butlers! I shall hear no more of their sweet “Yes, Madam!” They talk gently as a lottery-seller. The more they bow and smile the more you will press the button of tips. They are so funny. So long, everybody! 13th—The savour of the air is rich without being heavy. The Tokio atmosphere emits a lassitude. It’s natural that the Japs are prone to languor. A good while ago I pushed down my window facing the Bay of San Francisco. I leaned on the sill, my face propped up by both my hands. The grand scenery absorbed my whole soul. “Ideal place, isn’t it?” I emphasised. The bay was dyed in profound blue. The Oakland boat joggled on happily as from a fairy isle. My visionary eyes caught the heavenly flock of seagulls around it. If I could fly in their company! The low mountains over the bay looked inexpressively comfortable, like one sleeping under a warm blanket. The moon-night view from here must be wonderful. I felt a new stream of blood beginning to swell within my body. I buzzed a silly song. I crept into my uncle’s room. I stole one stalk of his cigarettes. I bit it, aping Mr. Uncle, when my door banged. 14th—I bustled back to my room. My breast throbbed.