This is a chemist's shop," he explained; "you get paper at the
stationer's, just after the turning, at the top of the street."

Hurrying for my passport, I inquired as to the location of such and
such a street--whatever the name of it is--where, I understood, the
place was where this was to be had. "Ah!" said he whom I addressed,
"you want the American Consul-General."

X

WHY MEN CAN'T READ NOVELS BY WOMEN

George Moore once presented the idea that the only thing of interest
and value about the creative art of a woman was the feminine quality of
that art. The novels of Jane Austen come readily to mind as an
argument in support of this provocative idea. Quite first among their
charms, every one will admit, is the indisputable fact that no man
could possibly have written them. They have the lightness, brightness,
sparkle, perfume, flavour, grace, fun, sensitivity of a young feminine
mind. No one more than Miss Austen has captivated the roarers among
men. A man admires, say, Conrad. He--if he is a manly man--falls in
love with Jane Austen. Very well.

Now, then, it is a curious and a paradoxical thing that no man of
masculine character can read the novels written by women to-day, unless
he has to; that is, unless he is a book-reviewer, publisher's reader,
magazine editor, proofreader, or some such thing. And the reason he
can't do it, in view of George Moore's idea and Miss Austen's renowned
magnetism, is curious indeed. It is because of the peculiarly feminine
attitude of mind of our present women-novelists. At least, this is the
arresting pronouncement delivered with much robust eloquence by my
leonine friend, Colonel Bludgeon.

The present writer (a pale, spectacled, middle-aged young man) is too
conscious of the wondrous nature of women to question their ability in
anything. But of one of whom he stands in greater awe than of anything
else in the world he is a humble friend. The dictum of this my friend
comes from a quite different character than myself. He is a great man;
he has read everything; seen everything; known everybody. Exception to
him could be taken only on one ground. He is perfectly awful. He
belongs to an old school; splenetic, choleric. He is
Sir-Anthony-Absolute-like; a critic in the spirit of the thundering
days of William Ernest Henley. His face is like a beefsteak. His
frame is like "a mountain walking." His voice, Johnsonian. He knows
more about literature than p