"This," said my sister, impressively, "is England."

We had been here only half an hour, but I had already got my point of
view.

"Let's go out and look up a hotel where they take Americans," I said.
"I feel the need of ice-water."

Our drinking-water at "The Insular" was on the end of the wash-stand
nearest the fire.

So, feeling a little timid and nervous, but not in the least homesick,
we went downstairs. One of our gorgeous retinue called a cab and we
entered it.

"Where shall we go?" asked my sister.

"I feel like saying to the first hotel we see," I said.

Just then we raised our eyes and they rested simultaneously upon a
sign, "The Empire Hotel for Cats and Dogs." This simple solution of
our difficulty put us in such high good humor that we said we wouldn't
look up a hotel just yet--we would take a drive.

Under these circumstances we took our first drive down Piccadilly, and
Europe to me dates from that moment. The ship, the landing, the
custom-house, the train, the hotel--all these were mere preliminaries
to the Europe, which began then. People told me in America how my
heart would swell at this, and how I would thrill at that, but it was