IT was October; the year, 1913. Susan, Miss Goucher and I had just returned from Liverpool on the good ship "Lusitania"--there was a good ship "Lusitania" in those days--after a delightful summer spent in Italy and France. Susan and I entirely agree that the season for Italy is midsummer. Italy is not Italy until she has drunk deep of the sun; until a haze of whitest dust floats up from the slow hoofs of her white oxen along Umbrian or Tuscan roads. You will never get from her churches all they can give unless they have been to you as shadows of great rocks in a weary land. To step from reverberating glare to vast cool dimness--ah, that is to know at last the meaning of sanctuary! But to step from a North River pier into a cynical taxi, solely energized by our great American principle of "Take a chance!"--to be bumped and slithered by that energizing principle across the main traffic streams of impatient New York--that is to reawaken to all the doubt and distraction, the implacable multiplicity of a scientifically disordered world! New Haven was better; Hillhouse Avenue preserving especially--through valorous prodigies of rejection--much of its ancient, slightly disdainful, studiously inconspicuous calm. Phil Farmer was waiting for us at the doorstep. For all his inclusive greeting, his warm, welcoming smile, he looked older, did Phil, leaner somehow, more finely drawn. There was a something hungry about him--something in his eyes. But if Susan, who notices most things, noted it, she did not speak of her impression to me. She almost hugged Phil as she jumped out to greet him and dragged him with her up the steps to the door. And now, if this portion of Susan's history is to be truthfully recorded, certain facts may as well be set down at once, clearly, in due order, without shame. 1. Phil Farmer was, by this time, hopelessly in love with Susan. 2. So was Maltby Phar. 3. So was I. It should now be possible for a modest but intelligent reader to follow the approaching pages without undue fatigue. II Susan never kept a diary, she tells me, but she had, like most beginning authors, the habit of scribbling things down, which she never intended to keep, and then could seldom bring herself to destroy. To a writer all that his pen leaves behind it seems sacred; it is, I treacherously submit, a private grief to any of us to blot a line. Such is our vanity. However inept the work which we force ourselves or are prevailed upon to destroy, the unhappy doubt always lingers: "If I had only saved it? One can't be sure? Perhaps posterity----?" Susan, thank God, was not and probably is not exempt from this folly. It enables me from this time forward to present certain passages--mere scraps and jottings--from her notebooks, which she has not hesitated to turn over to me.