and their love for him momentarily had its
effect. For an instant a different light came into the eyes, and Bok
instinctively realized Dodgson was about to say something. But he
checked himself. Bok had almost caught him off his guard.

"I am sorry," he finally said at the parting at the door, "that you
should be disappointed, for the sake of the children as well as for
your own sake. I only regret that I cannot remove the disappointment."

As they later walked to the station, the don said: "That is his
attitude toward all, even toward me. He is not 'Lewis Carroll' to any
one; is extremely sensitive on the point, and will not acknowledge his
identity. That is why he lives so much to himself. He is in daily
dread that some one will mention _Alice_ in his presence. Curious, but
there it is."

Edward Bok's next quest was to be even more disappointing; he was never
even to reach the presence of the person he sought. This was Florence
Nightingale, the Crimean nurse. Bok was desirous of securing her own
story of her experiences, but on every hand he found an unwillingness
even to take him to her house. "No use," said everybody. "She won't
see any one. Hates publicity and all that sort of thing, and shuns the
public." Nevertheless, the editor journeyed to the famous nurse's home
on South Street, in the West End of London, only to be told that "Miss
Nightingale never receives strangers."

"But I am not a stranger," insisted the editor. "I am one of her
friends from America. Please take my card to her."

This mollified the faithful secretary, but the word instantly came back
that Miss Nightingale was not receiving any one that day. Bok wrote
her a letter asking for an appointment, which was never answered. Then
he wrote another, took it personally to the house, and awaited an
answer, only to receive the message that "Miss Nightingale says there
is no answer to the letter."

Bok had with such remarkable uniformity secured whatever he sought,
that these experiences were new to him. Frankly, they puzzled him. He
was not easily baffled, but baffled he now was, and that twice in
succession. Turn as he might, he could find no way in which to reopen
an approach to either the Oxford tutor or the Crimean nurse. They were
plainly too much for him, and he had to acknowledge his defeat. The
experience was good for him; he did not realize this at the time, nor
did he enjoy the sensation of not getting what he wa