in that one question than I have shown in my whole string of affirmations. You women are strong on asking witty questions. Seriously, I believe I am a common fellow. I wouldn't make the admission to every one though. But to you, Miss Moore, who sit there under your parasol as impartial as the Muse of History, to you I own the truth. I'm no man of genius. There is something I miss; some final distinction I lack; you may call it what you please. Perhaps it's humility. Perhaps you can find it in Ruskin, somewhere. Perhaps it's patience—perhaps it's imagination. I'm vulgar, Miss Moore. I'm the vulgar son of vulgar people. I use the word, of course, in its strictest sense. So much I grant you at the outset, and then I walk ahead."
"Have you any sisters?"
"Not a sister; and no brothers, nor cousins, nor uncles, nor aunts."
"And you sail for Europe to-morrow?"
"To-morrow, at ten o'clock."
"To be away how long?"
"As long as I possibly can. Five years if possible."
"What do you expect to do in those five years?"
"Study."
"Nothing but study?"
"It will all come back to that, I fancy. I hope to enjoy myself reasonably, and to look at the world
