I think if I am going to be an angel, as I certainly am, instead of
going to Paris when I die, I should prefer to go to this angelic
island.

We ladies were invited by a well-known Chinese tea merchant to a
Chinese feast. The table looked rather bare, having only a teacup and a
plate before each person. The cups are double, the smaller one being
placed on the other to keep in the tea-leaves. After drinking the pale
water in which the leaves have soaked, we were served the viands. Each
dish is brought in separately and put on the table. Every one of them
is a _ragoût_ of some kind. The Chinaman dives in with his chopsticks,
and aims for the best piece he sees. Everything is eaten from the same
plate--indeed, why should the plate be changed, since everything tastes
and looks alike? I waited in vain for birds'-nest pudding, but I could
probably not have distinguished it from the other _ragoûts_ if it had
been there.

The gentlemen went off on a purely masculine tour, with a policeman in
tow. They wanted to see opium-dens and slums. They never told us a word
of what they did see--the mean things! Philip V.R., accompanied by an
American policeman, took us to a Chinese theater in the evening. I was
so nervous I hardly dared to look about me.

The dusky mass of uncanny Chinamen with their shaved heads and their
black pigtails sitting underneath us in the parquet was not pleasing,
and the stage was merely a platform where some privileged of the
audience sat unconcernedly. The scenery was--screens. How easy to
shift. We had the policeman of course; but, though he kept a vigilant
eye on us to prevent anything from happening in the way of an assault,