other "citizens of the wild," with that incalculable unanimity which to-day may be reserved for the biographies of optimistic orphans, and to-morrow veers to vies intimes of high-minded courtesans with hearts of gold. . . . In fine, through a variety of reasons, Mrs. Kennaston quite frankly cared even less for books, as manifestations of art, than does the average tolerably honest woman to whom books do not represent a source of income.
And you may or may not remember, likewise, what Kennaston wrote, about this time, in the "Colophon" to Men Who Loved Alison. With increased knowledge of the author, some sentences therein, to me at least, took on larger significance:
"No one, I take it, can afford to do without
books unless he be quite sure that his own day and
personality are the best imaginable; and for this
class of persons the most crying need is not, of
course, seclusion in a library, but in a sanatorium.
"It was, instead, for the great generality, who combine a taste for travel with a dislike for leaving home, that books were by the luckiest hit invented, to confound the restrictions of geography and the almanac. In consequence, from the
