The gentleman was the former consul at Yokohama. My uncle is his intimate friend. My new trunk was brought in from the store. It bears my name in Roman of commanding type. I stared at the characters as upon an ancient writing whose meaning could only be imagined. “Doesn’t ‘Miss Morning Glory’ suggest that the owner is a charming young lady?” My little smile smiled, as I thought that it would, of course. A new trunk, I am sorry to say, lacks a historical look. An old one is more gratifying, like old brocade or an old ring. Au revoir, my Ada! South-bound train, 4th—I was lavish of my art of “bothering.” My poor uncle—my eternally “poor uncle” was the victim. I wanted some diversion at any price. His face scowled as I bored him with my successive questions. I thought his irritated face fascinating. When I presented another question, he was droning a genteel snore. I twisted an edge of a newspaper into a roll. I thrust it into his nose. There was no doubt about his starting. “Bikkurishita!” he exclaimed. Then he begged to be allowed some chance to rest. This is a “bad year for cucumbers” for him. He made a mistake in accompanying me on Meriken Kenbutsu. Honestly I have to behave nicely. My opening question to Uncle was: “What’s the derivation of ‘damn’?” “Imperialism” was my last. I have a high regard for the people dignified by using the capital “I” for the personal pronoun. But if I were the President I should not wish to be addressed with that hackneyed, unromantic “Mr.” The cartoonists making sport of the President shock me. How big-hearted the President is! Those “devils” would be beheaded in the Orient. Los Angeles, 5th—No one bangs the door at Schuyler’s. The servants drop their eyes meekly before they speak. A well-bred atmosphere circulates. A woman over forty-five is nothing if she isn’t motherly enough to let one feel at home. Mrs. Schuyler’s silence is a smile. I loved her from my first glance. I thought I could ask her to wash my hair some sunny day. I could fancy how pleasant it would be to immerse myself in her chat—such sort of talk as an old-bonneted “how to keep house”—while I was drying my hair in the indolence of a sea-nymph. Modern topic is like black coffee, it is too stimulating. There is nothing dearer than a domestic subject. I have no hesitation in accepting her as my Meriken mother. I am positive I would feel more comfortable if I had one in this country. How good-naturedly she was fattened! A somewhat stout woman looks so proper for a mother. I wished I could lean on her plump shoulder from the back in Japanese girl’s way, and play with her hair, and ask a few innocent questions like “What have I to eat for dinner?” She talked about the Japanese woman, principally praising her shapely mouth. I felt conceitedly, because I was given one classical little mouth, if I had nothing else to be noticed.