the last days of our stay for us to have our experiences. The first came
about in this wise.

I had brought a letter to Max Nordau from America, but I heard after I
got to Paris that he was so fierce a woman hater, that I determined not
to present it. I read it over every once in awhile, but failed to screw
my courage to the sticking point, until one day I mentioned that I had
this letter, and Jimmie to my surprise threw up both hands, exclaiming:

"A letter to Max Nordau! Why, it is like owning a gold mine! Present it
by all means, and then tell us what he is like."

Afraid to present it in person, I sent it by mail, saying that I had
heard that he hated women and that I was scared to death of him, but if
he had a day in the near future on which he felt less fierce than usual,
I would come to see him, and I asked permission to bring a friend. By
"friend" I meant Jimmie.

The most charming note came in answer that a polished man of the world
could write--not in the least like the bear I had imagined him to be,
but courteous and even merry. In it he said he should feel honoured if
I would visit his poor abode, and he seemed to have read my books and
knew all about me, so with very mixed feelings Jimmie and I called at
the hour he named.

He lives in one of the regulation apartment houses of Paris, of the
meaner sort--by no means as fine as those in the American quarter. The
most horrible odour of German cookery--cauliflower and boiled cabbage
and vinegar and all that--floated out when the door opened. The room--a
sort of living-room--into which we were ushered was a mixture of all