H. Well, what do you do, then?

G.S.  Do?  I flit—­and flit—­for I am ever on the wing—­but I avoid the herd.  Today I am in Paris, tomorrow in Berlin, anon in Rome; but you would look for me in vain in the galleries of the Louvre or the common resorts of the gazers in those other capitals.  If you would find me, you must look in the unvisited nooks and corners where others never think of going.  One day you will find me making myself at home in some obscure peasant’s cabin, another day you will find me in some forgotten castle worshiping some little gem or art which the careless eye has overlooked and which the unexperienced would despise; again you will find me as guest in the inner sanctuaries of palaces while the herd is content to get a hurried glimpse of the unused chambers by feeing a servant.

H. You are a guest in such places?

G.S.  And a welcoming one.

H. It is surprising.  How does it come?

G.S.  My grandfather’s name is a passport to all the courts in Europe.  I have only to utter that name and every door is open to me.  I flit from court to court at my own free will and pleasure, and am always welcome.  I am as much at home in the palaces of Europe as you are among your relatives.  I know every titled person in Europe, I think.  I have my pockets full of invitations all the time.  I am under promise to go to Italy, where I am to be the guest of a succession of the noblest houses in the land.  In Berlin my life is a continued round of gaiety in the imperial palace.  It is the same, wherever I go.

H. It must be very pleasant.  But it must make Boston seem a little slow when you are at home.

G.S.  Yes, of course it does.  But I don’t go home much.  There’s no life there—­little to feed a man’s higher nature.  Boston’s very narrow, you know.  She doesn’t know it, and you couldn’t convince her of it—­so I say nothing when I’m there:  where’s the use?  Yes, Boston is very narrow, but she has such a good opinion of herself that she can’t see it.  A man who has traveled as much as I have, and seen as much of the world, sees it plain enough, but he can’t cure it, you know, so the best is to leave it and seek a sphere which is more in harmony with his tastes and culture.  I run across there, one a year, perhaps, when I have nothing important on hand, but I’m very soon back again.  I spend my time in Europe.

H. I see.  You map out your plans and ...

G.S.  No, excuse me.  I don’t map out any plans.  I simply follow the inclination of the day.  I am limited by no ties, no requirements, I am not bound in any way.  I am too old a traveler to hamper myself with deliberate purposes.  I am simply a traveler—­an inveterate traveler—­a man of the world, in a word—­I can call myself by no other name.  I do not say, “I am going here, or I am going there”—­I say nothing at all, I only act.  For instance, next week you may find me the guest of a grandee of