PENELOPE'S PROGRESS - Complete Series. Kate Douglas Wiggin

       Kate Douglas Wiggin

      PENELOPE'S PROGRESS - Complete Series: Penelope's English Experiences, Penelope's Experiences in Scotland, Penelope's Irish Experiences & Penelope's Postscripts

      (Unabridged)

       Being Such Extracts from the Commonplace Book of Penelope Hamilton

       Published by

      

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       [email protected] 2017 OK Publishing ISBN 978-80-7583-269-6

      Table of Contents

       PENELOPE'S ENGLISH EXPERIENCES

       PENELOPE'S EXPERIENCES IN SCOTLAND

       PENELOPE'S IRISH EXPERIENCES

       PENELOPE'S POSTSCRIPTS

      PENELOPE'S ENGLISH EXPERIENCES

       Table of Contents

       Part I. In Town

       I. The Weekly Bill

       II. The Powdered Footman Smiles

       III. Eggs a La Coque

       IV. The English Sense of Humour

       V. A Hyde Park Sunday

       VI. The English Park Lover

       VII. A Ducal Tea-Party

       VIII. Tuppenny Travels in London

       IX. A Table of Kindred and Affinity

       X. Apropos of Advertisements

       XI. The Ball on the Opposite Side

       XII. Patricia Makes Her Debut

       XIII. A Penelope Secret

       XIV. Love and Lavender

       Part II. In the Country

       XV. Penelope Dreams

       XVI. The Decay of Romance

       XVII. Short Stops and Long Bills

       XVIII. I Meet Mrs. Bobby

       XIX. The Heart of the Artist

       XX. A Canticle to Jane

       XXI. I Remember, I Remember

       XXII. Comfort Cottage

       XXIII. Tea Served Here

       XXIV. An Unlicensed Victualler

       XXV. Et Ego in Arcadia Vixit

      To my Boston friend Salemina.

       No Anglomaniac, but a true Briton.

      Part First.

       In Town

       Table of Contents

      Chapter I.

       The Weekly Bill

       Table of Contents

      Smith’s Hotel

       10 Dovermarle Street.

      Here we are in London again,—Francesca, Salemina, and I. Salemina is a philanthropist of the Boston philanthropists limited. I am an artist. Francesca is— It is very difficult to label Francesca. She is, at her present stage of development, just a nice girl; that is about all: the sense of humanity hasn’t dawned upon her yet; she is even unaware that personal responsibility for the universe has come into vogue, and so she is happy.

      Francesca is short of twenty years old, Salemina short of forty, I short of thirty. Francesca is in love, Salemina never has been in love, I never shall be in love. Francesca is rich, Salemina is well-to-do, I am poor. There we are in a nutshell.

      We are not only in London again, but we are again in Smith’s private hotel; one of those deliciously comfortable and ensnaring hostelries in Mayfair which one enters as a solvent human being, and which one leaves as a bankrupt, no matter what may be the number of ciphers on one’s letter of credit; since the greater one’s apparent supply of wealth, the greater the demand made upon it. I never stop long in London without determining to give up my art for a private hotel. There must be millions in it, but I fear I lack some of the essential qualifications for success. I never could have the heart, for example, to charge a struggling young genius eight shillings a week for two candles, and then eight shillings the next week for the same two candles, which the struggling young genius, by dint of vigorous economy, had managed to preserve to a decent height. No, I could never do it, not even if I were certain that she would squander the sixteen shillings in Bond Street fripperies instead of laying them up against the rainy day.

      It