, British, before they were Americans, that their buildings and
everything else would be enough like to remind one of home. But each
street we turned into showed me that this isn't at all true in New
York. There are bits like Paris--at least you think so, on a
superficial glance--but nothing in the faintest degree like London.

Something in the air too, made me feel excited, as it does in Paris.
Sparks of electricity snapped in my veins, and I had a presentiment of
interesting things that must surely happen.

I've always been very sensitive to smells, which can make me joyful or
miserable, just as music does. Vic says I oughtn't to tell people this,
as it signifies I'm still in close touch with brute creation. But I
don't much mind if I am, for so many animals are nicer than we are;
dogs and horses, for instance; and then one has to acknowledge, whether
one likes or not, that a monkey is a kind of poor relation. Each place
I've ever visited has its own smell for me, and even houses and people.
I would know the smell of Battlemead towers, if I were taken there by
winding ways, with my eyes blindfolded. It's the smell of old oak, and
_potpourri_, and books and chintz, and autumn leaves and pine trees,
mixed together. Mother smells like a tea rose, and Vic like a wax doll.
London has a rich, heavy scent, which makes you feel as if you had a
great deal of money and wanted to spend it, but not in a hurry. The
smell of Paris makes you want to laugh, and clap your hands and go to
the theatre. The smell of Rome makes you feel as if you wished to be
very beautiful, and move to the slow accompaniment of a magnificent
church organ, with the Vox Humana stop drawn out. But New York--the
smell of New York! How shall I describe the sensation it gave me, as
Mrs. Ess Kay's electric carriage smoothly spun me up town? The heavy
feeling of homesickness which I had had on the ship for the last few
days was gone; and instead I felt a wild sense of exhilaration, as if
I'd come dashing home after a glorious run with the hounds, and plunged
into a cold bath with two bottles of Eau de Cologne poured into the
water.

It was amazingly hot, but the breeze gave a hint of the sea, and every
shop and house we passed seemed to keep spices stored away, for the
breeze to blow over.

Even the old-fashioned houses, no higher than those in London, were as
different from ours as possible; and it was extraordinary to see
people--nicely dressed women, and