To my Boston friend Salemina.

  No Anglomaniac, but a true Briton.

   Part First--In Town.
 
  Chapter I. The weekly bill.

    Smith's Hotel,
            10 Dovermarle Street.

    Here we
        are in London again,
          --Francesca,
           Salemina,
         and I. Salemina
            is a
                 philanthropist
                    of the Boston philanthropists limited.

    I am an artist.

    Francesca is- It
        is very difficult
               to label Francesca.

    She is,
           at her present
               stage of development,
         just a nice girl;
        that is about all:
            the sense of humanity
            hasn't dawned upon her yet;
        she is
             even unaware
               that personal responsibility
                   for the universe
                has come into vogue,
           and so she is happy.

    Francesca is short
           of twenty years old,
         Salemina short of forty,
         I short of thirty.

    Francesca is in love,
           Salemina never
            has been in love,
         I never
            shall be in love.

    Francesca is rich,
           Salemina is well-to-do,
         I am poor.

    There we
        are in a nutshell.

    We are not
          only in London again,
           but we
            are again
                   in Smith's private hotel;
        one of
               those deliciously comfortable and
              ensnaring hostelries in Mayfair
            which one
                enters as
                       a solvent human being,
           and which one leaves
               as a bankrupt,
         no matter
             what may be the number
                   of ciphers
                 on one's
                  letter of credit;
     since the greater one's
            apparent supply
               of wealth,
           the greater the demand
               made upon it.

    I never stop long
           in London
         without determining
              to give
                   up my art
                       for a private hotel.

    There must be millions
           in it,
         but I fear
             I lack
                   some of the essential
                 qualifications
                    for success.

    I never
        could have the heart,
           for example,
         to charge
               a struggling young genius
                   eight shillings
                 a week
               for two candles,
           and then eight shillings the
               next week
             for the same two candles,
         which the struggling young genius,
           by dint of vigorous economy,
         had managed
              to preserve
                   to a decent height.

    No,
           I could never do it,
         not even
             if I were certain
                 that she
                    would squander the sixteen shillings
                           in Bond Street fripperies
                          instead of laying them
                               up against the rainy day.

    It is Salemina
         who always unsnarls
               the weekly bill.

    Francesca spends an evening
          or two with it,
           first of all,
         because,
           since she is so young,
         we think it good mental-training
               for her,
           and not
             that she ever
                accomplishes any
                      results worth mentioning.

    She begins
           by making three columns
          headed respectively F.,

    S.,
           and P. These initials stand
               for Francesca,
         Salemina,
           and Penelope,
         but they
              resemble the signs for pounds,
           shillings,
         and pence so perilously
             that they
                  introduce an added distraction.

    She then places
           in each column the items
         in which
             we are all equal,
           such as rooms,
         attendance,
           fires,
         and lights.

    Then come the extras,
           which are different
               for each person:
         more ale for one,
           more hot baths for another;
        more carriages for one,
           more lemon squashes for another.

    Francesca's column
        is principally
              filled with carriages
                   and lemon squashes.

    You would
          fancy her whole time
        was spent
               in driving and drinking,
           if you
              judged her merely
                   by this weekly statement
                       at the hotel.

    When she
        has reached the point
               of dividing the whole bill
             into three parts,
           so that each person