“As I said to you in the beginning, Mr. Bok, you are in error.  You are not speaking to ‘Lewis Carroll.’” And then:  “Is this the first time you have visited Oxford?”

Bok said it was; and there followed the most delightful two hours with the Oxford mathematician and the Oxford don, walking about and into the wonderful college buildings, and afterward the three had a bite of lunch together.  But all efforts to return to “Lewis Carroll” were futile.  While saying good-by to his host, Bok remarked: 

“I can’t help expressing my disappointment, Mr. Dodgson, in my quest in behalf of the thousands of American children who love you and who would so gladly welcome ‘Lewis Carroll’ back.”

The mention of children and their love for him momentarily had its effect.  For an instant a different light came into the eyes, and Bok instinctively realized Dodgson was about to say something.  But he checked himself.  Bok had almost caught him off his guard.

“I am sorry,” he finally said at the parting at the door, “that you should be disappointed, for the sake of the children as well as for your own sake.  I only regret that I cannot remove the disappointment.”

As they later walked to the station, the don said:  “That is his attitude toward all, even toward me.  He is not ‘Lewis Carroll’ to any one; is extremely sensitive on the point, and will not acknowledge his identity.  That is why he lives so much to himself.  He is in daily dread that some one will mention Alice in his presence.  Curious, but there it is.”

Edward Bok’s next quest was to be even more disappointing; he was never even to reach the presence of the person he sought.  This was Florence Nightingale, the Crimean nurse.  Bok was desirous of securing her own story of her experiences, but on every hand he found an unwillingness even to take him to her house.  “No use,” said everybody.  “She won’t see any one.  Hates publicity and all that sort of thing, and shuns the public.”  Nevertheless, the editor journeyed to the famous nurse’s home on South Street, in the West End of London, only to be told that “Miss Nightingale never receives strangers.”

“But I am not a stranger,” insisted the editor.  “I am one of her friends from America.  Please take my card to her.”

This mollified the faithful secretary, but the word instantly came back that Miss Nightingale was not receiving any one that day.  Bok wrote her a letter asking for an appointment, which was never answered.  Then he wrote another, took it personally to the house, and awaited an answer, only to receive the message that “Miss Nightingale says there is no answer to the letter.”