BOOK I.

THE PROMPTINGS OF THE IDEAL.


It was noon. Sir Edward had stepped from his brougham and was
proceeding on foot down the Strand. He was dressed with his usual
faultless taste, but in alighting from his vehicle his foot had
slipped, and a small round disk of conglomerated soil, which
instantly appeared on his high arched instep, marred the harmonious
glitter of his boots. Sir Edward was fastidious. Casting his eyes
around, at a little distance he perceived the stand of a youthful
bootblack. Thither he sauntered, and carelessly placing his foot
on the low stool, he waited the application of the polisher's art.
"'Tis true," said Sir Edward to himself, yet half aloud, "the
contact of the Foul and the Disgusting mars the general effect of
the Shiny and the Beautiful--and, yet, why am I here? I repeat it,
calmly and deliberately--why am I here? Ha! Boy!"

The Boy looked up--his dark Italian eyes glanced intelligently at
the Philosopher, and as with one hand he tossed back his glossy
curls, from his marble brow, and with the other he spread the
equally glossy Day & Martin over the Baronet's boot, he answered in
deep rich tones: "The Ideal is subjective to the Real. The
exercise of apperception gives a distinctiveness to idiocracy,
which is, however, subject to the limits of ME. You are an admirer
of the Beautiful, sir. You wish your boots blacked. The Beautiful
is attainable by means of the Coin."