I go to my bedroom, and try to open the window and have a look at the
street. I discover the trick.
How like guillotines are these English windows!
I pull up the bottom part of mine, and look out. This threatening thing
about my neck makes me uncomfortable. I withdraw.
English windows are useful, no doubt, but it is evident that the people
of this country do not use them to look out in the street and have a
quiet chat _a la francaise_.
Probably the climate would not allow it.
* * * * *
_9th July, 1872._
A friend comes to see me. He shares my opinion of the French hotel,
and will look for a comfortable apartment in an English house for me.
We breakfast together, and I ask him a thousand questions.
He knows every thing, it seems, and I gather valuable information
rapidly.
He prepares a programme of sight-seeing which it will take me a good
many days to work through.
The weather is glorious.
My boxes are packed and ready to be removed--to-night, I hope.
Will pay my first visit to the British Museum.