intent, however unready posterity stood to bracket him with Casanova or Don Juan, and however many tourists still went with reverence to Stratford. For the rest, he had sufficient money; and quite certainly he had met more celebrities than any other person living. Felix Kennaston reflected that, through accident's signal favor, he had done all he had at any time very earnestly wanted to do; and that the result was always disappointing, and not as it was depicted in story-books. . . . He wondered why he should again be harking back to literary standards.
Then it occurred to him that, in reality, he had always been shuffling through to-day—somehow and anyhow—in the belief that to-morrow the life of Felix Kennaston would be converted into a romance like those in story-books.
The transfiguring touch was to come, it seemed, from a girl's lips; but it had not; he kissed, and life remained uncharmed. It was to come from marriage, after which everything would be quite different; but the main innovation was that he missed the long delightful talks he used to have with Kathleen (mostly about Felix Ken-
