We left London at ten the next morning, having taken our tickets straight to Ryde, the principal port of the Isle of Wight. On arriving at Portsmouth we embarked on a small steamer which corresponded with the train leaving for Shanklin, a sea-bathing place where we intended to spend about three weeks. The crossing, though short, was rather rough. It took ten minutes by train from Ryde to Shanklin station, where we got into an omnibus and drove to Hollier’s Hotel. Shanklin is a clean and pleasant village built on a cliff with trees planted along its streets, detached houses standing back amid gardens and a grey church reminiscent of rural England, with a spire rising from among the trees. We have taken an apartment of two rooms for two guineas a week. Hollier’s Hotel is a white house overgrown with honeysuckle and sheltered by two enormous linden trees. Boxes of red geraniums hang out of the windows. There was a most charming air of home-like comfort about the whole house. Our sitting-room was prettily furnished, full of nick-nacks, with chintz covers, muslin curtains and vases of fresh flowers on the mantlepiece, and landscapes on the walls. Three bay-windows look on the front at the entrance and at the back into a railed-in garden with a broad, well-kept lawn like a green velvet carpet, shaded by cedars a century old. Before the entrance door stands the hotel omnibus, which is in ceaseless demand the whole day, bringing passengers from and taking them to the station. The driver, perched on his high seat, is dozing in the shade, with his nose on his paper. On the following day of our arrival we were awakened by the sound of the rain beating against the window-panes. It did not hinder Sergy to go and take his first bath. It was low tide and the bathers were taken out into the sea in a small cabin drawn by a horse. We have arranged to have our meals served in our apartment. At five o’clock a waiter brought in a neatly arrayed tray with nice tea, delicious cream and fresh-baked rolls. In the afternoon the sun came out, and we went for a stroll to the Chine, a picturesque narrow pass which descends to the sea-edge. The Chine is, for its own sake, well worth a visit to Shanklin; the admittance is only twopence each. We sat down to rest on a crooked arm of a fallen tree, and listened to the music of a small water-fall down below.