he soul, a thing not of a
season or a decade, but as ageless as a painting.

His ear caught the new song of attainment just as readily as it had
received the chorus of 'Dollars.' He wrote a novel of New England
life, full of faults, but vibrant with promise; and having gathered
together quite a nice sum of money, he went to England, at the advice
of the before-mentioned publisher, there and elsewhere in Europe to
absorb the less oxygenic atmosphere of older civilisations, which still
gives birth to the beginnings of things.

Twice he had visited Paris. The first time, with the instinct of the
tourist, he had discovered the vileness of the place--a discovery
fairly easy of accomplishment. The second time he had ignored the
tourist-stimulated aspect of Paris life, and had allowed his senses to
absorb the soul of the Capital of all the Latins, the laboratory of
civilisation. And he who has done that is never the same man again.
Germany had ministered to his reason, and Italy to his emotions; but he
found his greatest interest in London, which offered to him an endless
inspiration of changing moods, of vagrant smells, and the effect of a
stupendous drama of humanity.

Under the spell of Europe's ageless artistry and the rich-hued meadows
of England's literary past he had grown humble. The song of 'Dollars'
was less clamorous than the echo of the ocean in the heart of a
sea-shell. When he wrote, which was seldom, he approached his
paper-littered desk as an artist does his canvas. It was the medium by
which he might gain a modest niche in the Hall of the Immortals--or,
failing that, his soul at least would be enriched by the sincerity of
his endeavour.

In that highly artistic frame of mind he suddenly secured the _entree_
into London Society. For some reason, as unaccountable as the reverse,
a wave of popularity for Americans was breaking against the oak doors,
and he was carried in on the crest. The result was not ennobling. The
dormant instinct of satire leaped to life and the idealist became the
jester.

But then he was twenty-six and most agreeably susceptible to hap-hazard
influence. Being a Bostonian, he acquitted himself with creditable
_savoir faire_; and being an American, his appreciation of the
ridiculous saved him from the quagmire of snobbery, though he made many
friends and dined regularly with august people, whose family trees were
so rich in growth that they lived in perpetual gloom from the