To one prying into the secrets of Mr. Francis’s life through the medium of this diary, the number of entries like the one quoted above might have seemed somewhat appalling. The pages were full of hints of romance, or, rather, of an almost indefinite number of romances. The vague beginnings were recorded in statements like “She was in again to-day.” Later there were conjectures about “her,” bits of personal description, faint suggestions of longing, of aspiration; then commiserations of his own unworthiness, bitter self-analysis leading up to relinquishment, final fits of despondency, during which he loaded pages with the most mortuary poetry he could find. But he was an invincible idealist; soon the process started all over again. From the time when he began work, aged seventeen years, as a stock clerk in McDavitt’s silk department, he must have approximated a round hundred of these catalectic romances. His station in life, his work, his poetic temperament, made the result inevitable. His silks attracted beauty, he adored beauty, and beauty considered him in much the same class as the glass-and-ebony display-fixtures. Like a modern Tantalus, he watched the waters of life flow by so close that they fairly enveloped him, and yet he was powerless to lift one drop for the quenching of the thirst of his soul. A cheaper man might have solaced himself with cheaper beauty, a more practical man might have sought beauty as true in less inaccessible places, a luckier man might have stumbled upon it nearer home. Mr. Francis, lacking cheapness and practicality and luck, had remained a virtuous bachelor. On Friday, April 15, Mr. Francis wrote in the book: “She has not been in again. Several times I thought I saw her some aisles away. Her face is an unusual one. It is strange I seem always to be seeing it. “I heard a few minutes ago a rumor that I was being considered for a great piece of good fortune if Mr. Baldwin’s illness continues to prevent him from resuming his duties. I do not know why I am not so very much thrilled by the prospect. I suppose I ought to be. “She must have decided that McDavitt’s is too expensive. Her dress was tasteful, but not at all luxurious. She gave me a feeling of great respect. ‘Friend, let us cease to vex the Eternal Why: ’Tis very good to live; better, perhaps, to die.’ _Reader Magazine._” On Monday, April 18, he wrote: