I bought a golf outfit, nevertheless, in a store on my way home. The sight of a lady carrying it once stamped itself on my mind as so charming. What attire would be becoming to me? I said that my waist should be of deep red wool. Skirt? It must also be of wool, of course, with a large checkerboard pattern. Silk isn’t gamesome, is it? And the hat should be a mouse-coloured felt, which must be thrust carelessly by my big gold pin with a coral head. I well-nigh decided to dye my hair red. What will my uncle say? 20th—Schuyler’s cook wasn’t acquainted with the art of rice-cooking. Mother Schuyler said explanatorily that she had never tasted properly cooked rice since the day at Yokohama. The rice was pasty. I thought I would boil the rice according to Japanese prescription for to-day’s dinner. I stepped down to the kitchen. I put three cupfuls of rice in a saucepan, and dipped my hand in it, and supplied water as much as to my wrist. I placed it on the splendid fire till the agitated water pushed up the lid. Then I moved it on to a gentle fire. The cooking was done after twenty minutes. I was honoured by everybody at the dinner. The rice was singularly fine. The grains kept their own perfect shapes. After the dinner I approached Mrs. Schuyler with ink and paper. “Will you write your recommendation of my rice-cooking?” I said. She gazed at me questioningly. “What a funny girl! What shall I say?” Then I dictated solemnly thus: “_To whom it may concern:_ “I highly recommend Miss Morning Glory with her honourable art of rice-cooking. Her method is Japanese, that is to say, the best in the world. MRS. SCHUYLER” 21st:—Without a nephew Mother Schuyler wouldn’t be a complete old dear. She has one fortunately. Olive San told me a whole lot about her great brother. He is a promising artist. Artist? Doesn’t an artist affect boorish hair? I was anxious to know how his hair was, because I hated anything long except a frock-coat. Miss Olive declared him one handsome boy. (I thought how ridiculous is the American girl to praise her brother. It is Japanese etiquette to undervalue one’s relatives in describing them.) I finished my imaginary sketch of his face before we intruded in his studio. Olive presented me to him. He was a comely young man. What gratified me most about him was his shapely shoes, well-polished. He knew how to talk with girls. I was instantly put on unceremonious terms. How beautifully he once slipped “Miss” in addressing me! His gracefully-sounding “Pardon me, I mean Miss Morning Glory!” pleased me enormously. I told him that it was a regular humbug to be particular. “I will call you Oscar, shall I?” I said, winking. I felt some fervid water oozing down my cheeks. I was blushing. I was glad that he was not Mr. Ellis, Jr. The word “Jr.” appears to me like a ragged papa’s old coat which is dreadfully out of fashion. “Will you let me paint you?” he requested.