he most certain method of depriving that woman of her power. Beyond the
shady drives and prim gardens of the _faubourg_ her image began to
waver, and she haunted my dreams no more. And I was glad of this because
at that time I was an apprentice to Life, and there were so many things
at which I wanted to try my hand that I had not time for what is known,
rather vaguely, as love and romance and sentiment and so forth. I
resented the intrusion of these sensuous phantoms upon the solitudes
where I was struggling with the elementary rules of art. I was consumed
with an insatiable ambition to write, to read, to travel, to talk, to
achieve distinction. And curiously, I had an equally powerful instinct
to make myself as much like other young men, in manner and dress and
ideas, as possible. I was ashamed of my preoccupation with these
creatures of my imagination, believing them peculiar to myself, and I
hurried from them as one hurries from shabby relations. But before I was
aware of it I had fallen into the toils of another dream-woman, an
experienced, rapacious, and disdainful woman. I saw her in studios,
where she talked without noticing me save out of the corner of her eye.
I saw her at picture exhibitions, where she stood regarding the pictures
satirically, speaking rapidly and disparagingly from between small white
teeth and holding extravagant furs about her thin form. I had a notion,
too, that she was married, and I waited in a temper of mingled pride,
disgust, and fortitude for her to appear in the body. And then things
began to happen to me with bewildering rapidity. In the space of a week
I fell in love, I lost my employment, and I ran away to sea.

Now it is of no importance to you what my employment was or how I lost
it. Neither are you deeply interested in that sea upon which I spend my
days, and which is to bear me away from you to-morrow. You come of
inland stock, and the sea-coast of Bohemia, a coast of fairy lights and
magic casements, is more in your way. But I know without asking that you
will be eager to hear about the falling in love. Indeed this is the
point of the story.

The point is that an average young Englishman, as I was then, may quite
possibly live and prosper and die, without ever getting to know anything
about love at all! I told you this once, and you observed "My God!
Impossible." And you added thoughtfully: "The Englishwomen--perhaps it
is their fault." Well, it may be their fault, or the fau