“White women behave terribly, you know.”
22nd—I passed the afternoon at Mrs. Consul’s. She gave me her “favourite” discourse on Walt Whitman.
I delivered to my uncle what I had learned.
“No newness in it. It is what dear John Burroughs or Mr. Stedman said.”
He overturned my castle with one blow, and lit his cigar with a victorious air.
I was enraged.
“Yes, yes, eraiwa! Oriental gentleman knows everything we poor women know,” I said.
I sulkily drew away to my room with Mr. Whitman’s fat book, that I borrowed from Mrs. Consul.
23rd—A letter from my father arrived.
“O Papa, please don’t! I am tired of such a dirty conference.” I scoffed.