that of a hen in front of a motor-car. When I go abroad, I like
at least a fortnight to think of it. One has to attune one's
mind to new conditions, to map out the pleasant scheme of days,
to savour in anticipation the delights that stand there, awaiting
one's tasting, either in the mystery of the unknown or in the
welcoming light of familiarity. I love the transition that can
be so subtly gradated by the spirit between one scene and
another. The man who awakens one fine morning in his London
residence, scratches his head, and says, "What shall I do to-day?
By Jove! I'll start for Timbuctoo!" is to me an
incomprehensible, incomplete being. He lacks an aesthetic sense.

I did not dare tell Judith she lacked an aesthetic sense. I
might just as well have accused her of stealing silver spoons. I
said I should miss her (which I certainly shall), and promised to
write to her once a week.

"And you," said I, "will have heaps of time to write me the
History of a Sequestered and Meditative Self--meanwhile, let us
go out somewhere and dine."

When I got home, I found a card on my hall-table. "Mr. Sebastian
Pasquale."

I am sorry I missed Pasquale. I haven't seen him for two or
three years. He is a fascinating youth, a study in reversion. I
will ask him to dinner here some day soon. It will be quieter
than at the club.