map. I do not know where it is, or what it is. I only know that it has a beautiful name, and that I have written a beautiful thing about it. This age is an age of identification, in which our god is the Encyclopædia Britannica, and our devil the fairy tale that teaches nothing. We go to the British Museum for culture, and to Archdeacon Farrar for guidance. And then we think that we are advancing. We might as well return to the myths of Darwin, or to the delicious fantasies of John Stuart Mill. They at least were entertaining, and no one attempted to believe in them."
"We always return to our first hates," said Lord Reggie, rather languidly.
"Do have some more tea, Madame Valtesi," pleaded Mrs. Windsor.
"No, thank you. I never take more than one cup on principle—the principle being that the first cup is the best, like the last word. I want to take a stroll round the rose garden, if I may. Mr. Amarinth, will you come with me?"
She added in an undertone to him, as they walked slowly away together—
"I always hate to see people drinking when I have finished. It makes me feel like a barmaid."
