There are the lodging-houses, monotonous in their similarity.  The same gilt-edged mirrors protected from the dust by green perforated paper; the same jar of wax flowers, standing on a mat which is composed of floral designs in Berlin wool—­designs to which you can give any name you like—­“You pays your money and you takes your choice.”  They represent anything, the whole concern hiding its modest head under a glass case; the same shavings in the grate, with long trails of roses gently slumbering on the top; yes, and the same voluble landlady, the whole of whose private concerns you are in possession of five minutes after you have taken the apartments.

There is the boarding-house, advertised as “Directly facing the sea;” and when you have engaged your rooms, and arrive with all your luggage, you find the establishment is at the far end of a side street; and “Directly facing the sea” is interpreted by the fact that by hanging half-way out of the sitting-room widow, and screwing your head round violently to the left, you can see the place where that watery monarch ought to be.

“A boarding-house is so much nicer than an hotel, because you get to know the people so much easier,” I heard a girl remark once.  This is my chief objection to a boarding-house.  Because you are staying under the same roof, all the inhabitants consider they have a right to address you, and, what is more, they will not be repulsed, which, as most of them by no means move in the best society, is not at all palatable.  The women you can tolerate, but the men are not to be endured.  You are always coming across them, too.  On whatever drive, excursion, or trip you take you invariably meet “boarding-houseites,” who are only too ready to recognize you.  You can never get away from them; there is only the public drawing-room, and there they come in and out, talking to you, interrupting you, or else causing your ears to ache by their attempts at music.(?)

The meals are somewhat amusing, as you can watch all your fellow-boarders without being disturbed.  They cannot talk and eat at the same time, and so philosophically devote all their energies to their dinner.

There is the girl who scrapes up acquaintances with everybody.  She has had the good luck to be placed near a man, and the demure way in which she prattles and smiles at him convinces you that she is trying to make the best use of her time.  Sometimes he is absent, and then the smiles give way to the gloomiest expression.  Finally, on the arrival of new-comers, when there is a sort of general post all round, she is placed at the farthest extreme to her late partner, and oh! the wistful little glances she passes up the table to the gourmand who, oblivious to all but his dinner, scarcely notices her departure.

There are the three old maids, intent on capturing a husband.  They have come here as a last resource.  But with the usual fickleness of fortune, they seem to be more shunned by the male sex than attracted to it.