I said that my waist should be of deep red wool. Skirt? It must also be of wool, of course, with a large checkerboard pattern. Silk isn’t gamesome, is it? And the hat should be a mouse-coloured felt, which must be thrust carelessly by my big gold pin with a coral head.
I well-nigh decided to dye my hair red.
What will my uncle say?
20th—Schuyler’s cook wasn’t acquainted with the art of rice-cooking.
Mother Schuyler said explanatorily that she had never tasted properly cooked rice since the day at Yokohama.
The rice was pasty.
I thought I would boil the rice according to Japanese prescription for to-day’s dinner.
I stepped down to the kitchen.
I put three cupfuls of rice in a saucepan, and dipped my hand in it, and supplied water as much as to my wrist.
I placed it on the splendid fire till the agitated water pushed up the lid. Then I moved it on to a gentle fire. The cooking was done after twenty minutes.