I humbled myself to a newspaper office with the following shamefaced advertisement:
“Jap girl, nineteen, good-looking, longs for a place in a family of the first rank.”
I used every kind of oratory to bring my uncle to agree to my two weeks of freedom.
19th—Two letters were waiting me at the office.
One from No. 296 of a certain part.
296?
Unfortunately it sounds like “nikumu” in Japanese, meaning hatred.
And the other was from Fifth Avenue.
Parlour maid.
Twelve dollars for a month.