r" and "The God Jupiter."

I found a little English tea-room about a mile away, and often went
there for tea and muffins which in those days were hardly procurable in
French places. The tea-habit is only about ten years old in France. The
people in the shop soon knew me by sight, which was just as well, as I
would begin going over the words of some part in my head and walk out
serenely, quite forgetting to pay for my tea. I still go there
occasionally when I am in Paris and remind them of that. I sometimes
went to the two operas and to the theatre, but not nearly often enough,
as I could spare neither time nor money, and the late hours made a
concentration on the next morning's work more difficult. The concert
world was a great disappointment to me. I think I longed for nothing so
much that year, as to hear great orchestral music well performed; but
the Lamoreux and Chevillard concerts did little to satisfy this craving,
and I was amazed at the roughness of the strings and the narrow scope of
the programs. Many of the great artists avoided Paris in their tours,
the reason given being lack of suitable concert halls.

On the other hand, a whole new school of composition was opened to me
that winter by a fellow _pensionnaire_. Charles Loeffler and Henry
Hadley spent part of the winter in our pension, and Mr. Loeffler
introduced me to the French modernists. Later in the winter we often
talked over their works together. He used to stroll into my room about
tea time, saying he liked to watch me make tea for I had such attractive
fingers. He used to take me to the odd corners of his beloved Paris,
_cafes_ haunted by long-haired _Sorbonne_ students, and _cafes
chantants_, where the frank improprieties of the ditties were for me so
impenetrably disguised by the _argot_ in which they were written that I
did not understand a word of them. "When your French gets more
colloquial," he used to say, "I shan't be able to bring you here any
more. Oh! if you were only a man!" He always ended with this
exclamation, and I never knew why, for my woman-hood did not seem to
disturb him particularly. Perhaps he felt the want of a sort of Fidus'
Achates to confide in. He took me to two famous places, and this is my
description of them in a letter to my mother:

"We went first to the famous 'Noctambules' in the Quartier Latin. It is
where the wittiest men of their _genre_ are to be found. They are many
of them decorated by the government. One h