inette's one eyed black cat
(a hideous beast) met me in the hall and arching its back welcomed me
affably to its new residence. And on my breakfast-table I found a
copy of the first edition of Cristoforo da Costa's "_Elogi delle
Donne Illustri_," a book which, in great diffidence, I had asked Lord
Carnforth, a perfect stranger, to allow me the privilege of consulting
in his library, and which Lord Carnforth, with a scholar's splendid
courtesy, had sent me to use at my convenience.

Filled with peace and good-will to all men, like a personification
of Christmas in May, I started out this morning to see my lawyers. I
reached them at three o'clock, having idled at second-hand bookstalls
and lunched on the road. I signed their unintelligible document, and
wandered through the Temple Gardens and along the Embankment. When I had
passed under Hungerford Bridge, it struck me that I was warm, a little
leg-weary, and the Victoria Embankment Gardens smiled an invitation
to repose. I struck the shady path beneath the terrace of the National
Liberal Club, and sat myself down on a comfortable bench. The only other
occupant was a female in black. As I take no interest in females
in black, I disregarded her presence, and gave myself up to the
contemplation, of the trim lawns and flower-beds, the green trees
masking the unsightly Surrey side of the river, and the back of the
statue of Sir Bartle Frere. A continued survey of the last not making
for edification (a statue that turns its back on you being one of
the dullest objects made by man), I took from my pocket a brown
leather-covered volume which I had fished out of a penny box: "_Suite de
l'Histoire du Gouvernement de Venise ou L'Histoire des Uscoques, par le
Sieur Houssaie, Amsterdam, MDCCV._" A whole complete scholarly history
of a forgotten people for a penny. The Uscoques were originally
Dalmatians who settled at Segna on the Adriatic and became the most
pestiferous colony of pirates and desperadoes of sixteenth century
Europe. I opened the yellow-stained pages and savoured their acrid musty
smell. How much learning, thought I, bought with the heart's-blood, how
many million hours of fierce intellectual struggle appeal to mankind
nowadays but as an odour, an odour of decay, in the nostrils of here and
there a casual student. I thought this, and my eye caught, repeated many
times, the name of the Frangipani, once lords of Segna. As men, their
achievements are wiped out of commonl