For this is a land of quest. One does not come to rest or stay, only to search for that which one has not yet found.
"As we proceed, it shifts its place,"
and the days go by in swift pursuit.
But here is none of the reckless, happy-go-lucky temper of the London Prague or the Paris Latin Quarter. Life is earnest, sad, ascetic. Its only lotus-eating is hard work. The shadow of grief rests over it, for women whom life has robbed come here to forget their sorrow, if may be, in philanthropy or in art. Here eager girls toil with pen or canvas, keys or strings.
Each has a purpose. The little black bag that the Bohemian carries is a symbol of an aim in life. It may hold books, or manuscript poems, or comments on Aristotle. It may hold boxes of crackers or jars of marmalade. Whatever its contents, it is always full.
These earnest women suffer loneliness, and, it may be, failure. But they have freedom and pleasant companionship, long
