The photographer handed me a fan. Alas! It was a Chinese fan in a crude mixture of colour. He urged me to carry it. I declined, saying: “Nobody fans in cool November!” 18th—We had a laugh. Ada, my sweet singer of “My Gal’s a High-Born Lady,” accompanied me to a matinée of one vaudeville. This is the age of quick turn, sudden flashes. The long show has ceased to be the fashion. Modern people are tired of the slowness of old times which was once supposed to be seriousness. Could anything be prouder than the face of the acrobat retiring after a perilous performance? Woman tumbler! I wondered how Meriken ladies could enjoy looking at such a degeneration of woman. I was glad, however, that I did not see any snake-charmer. What a delightful voice that negro had! Who could imagine that such a silvery sound could come from such a midnight face? It was like clear water out of the ground. I was struck by a fancy. I sprang up. I attempted to imitate the high-kick dance. I fell down abruptly. “Jap’s short leg is no use in Amerikey—can’t achieve one thing. I am frankly tired of mine,” I grumbled. 19th—The Sunday chime was the voice of an angel. The city turned religious. Mrs. Willis—I had no curiosity about her first name; it is meaningless for the “Mrs.” of middle age—indulged in chat with me. If I say she was “sociable”?—it sounds so graceful. She announced herself a bigot of poetry. She was bending to make a full poetical demonstration. Of course it was more pleasing than a mourning-gowned narrative of her lamented husband. (I suppose he is dead, as divorce is too commonplace.) But it were treachery, if I were put under her long recital of the insignificant works of local poets. Tasukatta wa! A little girl came as a relief. Dorothy! She is a boarder of Mrs. Willis’, the golden-haired daughter of Mrs. Browning. (Mrs. Browning was a disappointment, however. I fancied she might be a relative of the poet Browning. I asked about it. Her response was an unsympathetic “No!”) “O’ hayo!” Dorothy said, spattering over me her familiarity. It takes only an hour to be friends with the Meriken girl, while it is the work of a year with a Japanese musume. “Great girl! Your Nippon language is perfect! Would you like to learn more?” I said. “I’d like it,” was her retort. Then we slipped to my room. I wonder how Mrs. Willis fared without an audience! I was sorry, thinking that she might regard me as an uncivil Jap. “Chon kina! Chon kina!” Thus Dorothy repeated. It was a Japanese song, she said, which the geisha girls sung in “The Geisha.” Tat, tat, tat, stop, Dorothy! Truly it was the opening sound—not the words—of a nonsensical song. I presume that “The Geisha” is practising a plenteous injustice to Dai Nippon. I recalled one Meriken consul who jolted out that same song once at a party. He became no more a gentleman to me after that. 20th—I pasted my little card on my door. I wrote on it “Japanese Lessons Given.”