multitudinosity, which both enervated and exhausted, and yet with a vague but defining simultaneity exalted also, charmingly struck a chiming ringing discordant wavering note. Our friend was later to remember it—insofar as memory could be said to operate upon the mere passing impression of a third-person singular neuter pronoun—as a phenomenon of change so complete that his imagination, which had worked so beforehand, if not, as well, behindhand, felt itself, in the connection, without margin or allowance. The change moreover, if it were change at all, came to, at the very least, if not indeed in its essence, represent to him the emotion of bewilderment which had, as he judged it, effected a supplantation of his quite previous indifference. The abstraction acted, he was later to recall having considered the possibility of remembering through a diaphanic mist of esthetic romance, with a more puissant energy than the character. Introspection was not, he was to believe at the time, his bête noir, his fait accompli, his plume de ma tante; but it never, as he might put it, theless was not, at the moment which was, in its spacious and lethargic way, indicated by the hands of the porcelain clock, so ornate baroque insouciant suggestive serene sinuous smooth ticky-tocky dingy-dongy on the mantel, entirely unpresent as what he should, in his usual habit of precision, have called a phenomenon. “So there you,” he earnestly declared with a fresh generosity, “are.” He seemed with that to