It is odd that externally I bear few of the marks of the indolent lotus-eating soul that possesses me. People viewing me superficially might think, with Andrews, that I am fitted for stratagems, spoils and—business. Yet how happy I was when Andrews made me his offer! How I plunged into his affairs—our affairs—and gave them all my energy! The children, I exulted inwardly, the children are now safe! But nature abhors anomalies. To work for children alone is not enough. One desires to work for a bosom companion, for some beloved woman, whose breast is home, whose warm arms are the one refuge against the world, whose eyes are the bright gateways to heaven. That fulfillment I never had and never shall have. Hence the anomalous sense of frustration, of incompleteness. Some psychoanalyst would doubtless brand this as a well-known middle-aged complex, call it by name like a familiar and proceed to "cure" me of it. But I am not going to any psychoanalyst. I know my trouble and also its name—-though I cannot call it after King OEdipus or King David or the like. _Galeotto fu il libro e chi lo scrisse_ mourned the flame-like Francesca da Rimini. And the name and the author of my trouble is not Galeotto but—Alicia—Alicia whom I did not take and now can never have. I am no romantic Paolo to Alicia’s Francesca. I am a business man—yes, a middle-aged, almost alert New York business man of the approved hard-varnish variety—with good, pat stereotyped phrases and a show of manly sincerity. Who does not know that straight talk of most of us modern business men, under which we can hide so much cunning, shrewdness and chicane? Could I not have simply taken possession of Alicia by a sort of eminent domain? Oh, I don’t mean anything improper! I mean by all the astute and usual methods, the bell—book—candle and orange-blossoms sort of thing, like the hardheaded Mr. Pettigrew of American novels, or the wicked marquess or baronet of the English. But I could not—I could not. Under the carapace of the turtle or the armadillo is a body of flesh with nerves and blood and viscera—a soft living part. So also under the shell of the maligned business man. An infinite pity and tenderness stir me at the thought of Alicia. I suddenly feel in my inmost soul the softness of her cheek and it touches me as the delicacy of one’s own child’s flesh must touch one. If I had a child of my own—but on that I must not let my mind dwell even in dreams. Yet, why not? Dreams are all I am going to have and, pardie, it is more than I deserve. Much, very much has been given to me and I ought to feel profoundly grateful. And I do feel grateful. But—Alicia—is engaged. I can hardly write the words, though these are the words that have driven me to writing again.