To The Man Who Loves Art For

The Ways Of Fate Are Indeed Hard To Understand. If There Is Not Some Compensation Hereafter, Then The World Is A Cruel Jest.

How Sweet The Morning Air Is! See How That One Little Cloud Floats Like A Pink Feather From Some Gigantic Flamingo. Now The Red Rim Of The Sun Pushes Itself Over The London Cloud-bank. It Shines On A Good Many Folk, But On None, I Dare Bet, Who Are On A Stranger Errand Than You And I. How Small We Feel With Our Petty Ambitions And Strivings In The Presence Of The Great Elemental Forces Of Nature!

We Had Got As Far As This, When Who Should Walk In But The Gentleman Himself, Who Had Been Drinking His Beer In The Taproom And Had Heard The Whole Conversation. Who Was I? What Did I Want? What Did I Mean By Asking Questions? He Had A Fine Flow Of Language, And His Adjectives Were Very Vigorous.

Detection Is, Or Ought To Be, An Exact Science, And Should Be Treated In The Same Cold And Unemotional Manner.

It Is More Than Possible; It Is Probable.