A well-thumbed paragraph in a recent number of the _Journal_ announces that Mr. Bok has trampled upon his diffident, sensitive nature to the extent of permitting “what he considers a very satisfactory portrait” of himself to be offered to his admirers at the low price of a quarter of a dollar apiece. This offer, which bears the significant heading “The Girl Who Loves Art,” is made with the express stipulation that intending purchasers shall not deepen the blush on the gifted editor’s cheek by sending their orders direct to the _Home Journal_ office, but shall address them direct to the photographer, Mr. C. M. Gilbert, of 926 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia. I desire to add that I reprint this generous proposition of my own free will and without either solicitation on the part of Mr. Bok or hope of reward from the photographer whose precious privilege it has been to transmit to the cabinet-sized cardboard the likeness of America’s crown-prince. I would not do this for Mr. Gilder, for Mr. Scribner, or for any of the Harpers. I would do it only for Mr. E. W. Bok. CHAPTER IX. CERTAIN THINGS WHICH A CONSCIENTIOUS LITERARY WORKER MAY FIND IN THE CITY OF NEW YORK. Let us return to my imaginary young friend from Park Row, to whom I have referred in a previous chapter, and let us picture him at a small social gathering in the drawing-room of some clever and charming woman of fashion, of the kind that assiduously cultivate the society of men of art and letters because they like to hear the gossip of literature, the stage, and the studio “at first hand,” if I may use the term. Our young friend is modest and well-bred, and, moreover, carries with him a certain breezy and intimate knowledge of the men and events of the day which fairly entitles him to a place of his own in what ought to be the most enjoyable of all circles of society. He is delighted with the young women whom he meets here in what his hostess fondly hopes will become a _salon_--how many New York women have had a similar ambition!--and yet he cannot understand why they pay so much attention to certain gentlemen who are present also, and whom he knows to be of very small account so far as the arts and letters are concerned. Young Daubleigh is there, the centre of a breathless group, to whom he is bewailing the utter lack of all true art sense on the part of Americans, and the hideousness of New York, which, he declares, offers absolutely nothing to a true artist. Daubleigh never goes into society without a pocketful of art phrases, such as “_au premier coup_,” “he has found his true _métier_,” “the divine art of Velasquez,” and others of the same sort. Of course he is a great social favorite, and of course he has very high ideals of his art, and is apt to refer slightingly to artists who know how to draw as “mere illustrators”--a form of speech which does not somehow endear him to those who know that he ought to be at Cooper Union learning the rudiments of his calling.