A naked woman in an oil painting stood before me in the hall. Is Mrs. Willis a lady worthy of respect? It is nothing but an insulting stroke to an Oriental lady—yes sir, I’m a lady—to expose such an obscenity. I brought down one of my crape haoris, raven-black in hue, with blushing maple leaves dispersed on the sleeves, and cloaked the honourable picture. My haori wasn’t long enough. The feet of the nude woman were all seen. I have not the least objection to the undraped feet. They were faultless in shape. I myself am free to bestow a glimpse of my beautiful feet. I turned the key of my door. I stripped off my shoes and my stockings also. Dear red silken stockings! I scrutinised my feet for a while. Then I asked myself: “Which is lovelier, my feet or those in the painting?” 15th—I couldn’t rest last night. The long wail of a horn somewhere in the distance—at the gate of the ocean perhaps—haunted me. The night was foggy. I had a wild dream. The fogs were not withdrawn this morning. I was discouraged, I had to go out in my best gown. Wasn’t it a shame that two buttons jumped out when I hurried to dress up? “Are the buttons secure?” is my first worry and the last. Why don’t Meriken inventors take up the subject of buttonless clothes? Woman cannot be easy while her dress is fastened by only buttons. 16th—I wish I could pay my bill with a bank check. Have I money in the bank with my name? I fancied it a great idea to sleep with a big bank book under the pillow. I decided to save my money hereafter. How often have I expressed my hatred of an economical woman! I detested the clinking “charin charan” of small coins in my purse. Very hard I tried to get from them. Extravagance is a folly. Folly is only a mild expression for crime. I deducted ten dollars from the fifty that I had settled for my new street gown. I dropped a card notifying my ladies’ tailor that I had altered my mind for the second price. “Ten already for the bank!” I said. I took it to the “Yokohama Shokin Ginko” of this city. I was given a little book for the first time in my life. I thought myself quite a wealthy woman preserving my money in the bank. I pressed the book to my face. I held it close to my bosom as a tiny girl with a new doll. And I smiled into a looking-glass. 17th—I went to the gallery of the photographer Taber, and posed in Nippon “pera pera.” The photographer spread before me many pictures of the actress in the part of “Geisha.” She was absurd. I cannot comprehend where ’Mericans get the conception that Jap girls are eternally smiling puppets. Are we crazy to smile without motive? What an untidy presence! She didn’t even fasten the front of her kimono. Charm doesn’t walk together with disorder under the same Japanese parasol. And I had the honour to be presented to an extraordinary mode in her hair. It might be entitled “ghost style.” It suggested an apparition in the “Botan Toro” played by kikugoro.