An odd look of overt approval I have surprised of late in Griselda’s eyes causes me a peculiar twinge of regret. It shows that new conditions have overwhelmingly ousted the old. Griselda never troubled to approve of me before. I have no desire for any change in Griselda, even for the better. I have been successful, however, I am bound to record. I have found an outdoor school for Ranny and Laura in Macdougal Street near Washington Square, and a nearby kindergarten for Jimmie. The girl Alicia is able to take Ranny and Laura to Macdougal Street on the way to her own public school. Jimmie, who does not go until later in the morning, is a problem. Thus far I have been conducting him to his kindergarten myself. But obviously that cannot continue, despite the fact that Jimmie, seeing his elder brother depart with two girls, turns to me with a look of inimitable superiority and observes: "We men must stick together, mustn’t we, Uncle Ranny." I gravely agree with him on the general policy, though I aim to forestall future trouble by indicating that expediency often governs these things. The term bills paid in advance to the schools have left a gap in my exchequer. For the first time I have been compelled to decline a genuine bargain. Andrews, the bookseller, called me up with the announcement that he had something I could not resist. Laughing, I asked him to name it. "It is nothing less than Boswell’s ’Johnson’," he told me with particular solemnity, "first edition, with the misprint on page 135—a beautiful copy." "Dated April 10, 1791?" "Dated April 10, 1791," he repeated with impressive triumph. My heart sank, though it was beating loudly. For many years I have had an order for that Boswell. "And the price?" I murmured faintly. "For you," he said, "four hundred dollars." Griselda would approve of me blatantly did she know the courage it required to answer Andrews. "No, friend, I am sorry but I cannot afford it at present." Andrews was incredulous. "Do I hear you correctly?" he queried. "Accurately," I told him, "if you hear that I can’t take it." "Then I refuse to accept the evidence of my ears," he retorted with spirit. "I shall send it down to you." I told him it was useless. "Oh, you needn’t buy it," he shouted. "But I insist on giving an old customer the pleasure of seeing it at his leisure, in his own library." A shrewd, good devil is Andrews, even though he is a good salesman. I have been feasting my senses on the Boswell, but it will have to go back.