I wonder if the reader would care to hear about my First Love, of
whom I am naturally thinking a good deal this morning, under the
demoralising influences of the fresh air, blue sky, and various
birds and flowers. More potent intoxicants these than any that
need licenses for their purveyance, responsible-- see the
poets--for no end of human foolishness.

I was about to tell the story of my First Love, but on second
thoughts I decide not. It will keep, and I feel hungry, and
yonder seems a dingle where I can lie and open my knapsack, eat,
drink, and doze among the sun-flecked shadows.




CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH I EAT AND DREAM

The girl we go to meet is the girl we have met before. I evolved
this sage reflection, as, lost deep down in the green alleys of
the dingle, having fortified the romantic side of my nature with
sandwiches and sherry, I lazily put the question to myself as to
what manner of girl I expected the Golden Girl to be. A man who
goes seeking should have some notion of what he goes out to seek.
Had I any ideal by which to test and measure the damsels of the
world who were to pass before my critical choosing eye? Had I
ever met any girl in the past who would serve approximately as a
model,--any girl, in fact, I would very much like to meet again?