Penelope hates a four-wheeler. Salemina is nervous in a hansom.
Francesca prefers a barouche or a landau.

Salemina likes a steady fire in the grate. Penelope opens a window
and fans herself.

Salemina inclines to instructive and profitable expeditions.
Francesca loves processions and sightseeing. Penelope abhors all of
these equally.

Salemina likes history. Francesca loves fiction. Penelope adores
poetry and detests facts.

Penelope likes substantial breakfasts. Francesca dislikes the sight
of food in the morning.

In the matter of breakfasts, when we have leisure to assert our
individual tastes, Salemina prefers tea, Francesca cocoa, and I,
coffee. We can never, therefore, be served with a large comfortable
pot of anything, but are confronted instead with a caravan of silver
jugs, china jugs, bowls of hard and soft sugar, hot milk, cold milk,
hot water, and cream, while each in her secret heart wishes that the
other two were less exigeante in the matter of diet and beverages.

This does not sound promising, but it works perfectly well in
practice by the exercise of a little flexibility.

As we left dear old Dovermarle Street and Smith's Private Hotel
behind, and drove to the station to take the Flying Scotsman, we