all America were drifting, throwing overboard ideals and aspirations in
order to keep afloat in the swirling foam.

And then--the Fates stooped and touched his destiny with a star.

A New York publisher (one of that little group which has for its motto,
'Art for Art's sake,' not 'Art, for God's sake!') noticed him, and
spoke of literature as an expression of the soul, a thing not of a
season or a decade, but as ageless as a painting.

His ear caught the new song of attainment just as readily as it had
received the chorus of 'Dollars.' He wrote a novel of New England
life, full of faults, but vibrant with promise; and having gathered
together quite a nice sum of money, he went to England, at the advice
of the before-mentioned publisher, there and elsewhere in Europe to
absorb the less oxygenic atmosphere of older civilisations, which still
gives birth to the beginnings of things.

Twice he had visited Paris. The first time, with the instinct of the
tourist, he had discovered the vileness of the place--a discovery
fairly easy of accomplishment. The second time he had ignored the
tourist-stimulated aspect of Paris life, and had allowed his senses to
absorb the soul of the Capital of all the Latins, the laboratory of
civilisation. And he who has done that is never the same man again.
Germany had ministered to his reason, and Italy to his emotions; but he
found his greatest interest in London, which offered to him an endless
inspiration of changing moods, of vagrant smells, and the effect of a
stupendous drama of humanity.

Under the spell of Europe's ageless artistry and the rich-hued meadows