Bok had with such remarkable uniformity secured whatever he sought, that these experiences were new to him.  Frankly, they puzzled him.  He was not easily baffled, but baffled he now was, and that twice in succession.  Turn as he might, he could find no way in which to reopen an approach to either the Oxford tutor or the Crimean nurse.  They were plainly too much for him, and he had to acknowledge his defeat.  The experience was good for him; he did not realize this at the time, nor did he enjoy the sensation of not getting what he wanted.  Nevertheless, a reverse or two was due.  Not that his success was having any undesirable effect upon him; his Dutch common sense saved him from any such calamity.  But at thirty years of age it is not good for any one, no matter how well balanced, to have things come his way too fast and too consistently.  And here were breaks.  He could not have everything he wanted, and it was just as well that he should find that out.

In his next quest he found himself again opposed by his London friends.  Unable to secure a new Alice in Wonderland for his child readers, he determined to give them Kate Greenaway.  But here he had selected another recluse.  Everybody discouraged him.  The artist never saw visitors, he was told, and she particularly shunned editors and publishers.  Her own publishers confessed that Miss Greenaway was inaccessible to them.  “We conduct all our business with her by correspondence.  I have never seen her personally myself,” said a member of the firm.

Bok inwardly decided that two failures in two days were sufficient, and he made up his mind that there should not be a third.  He took a bus for the long ride to Hampstead Heath, where the illustrator lived, and finally stood before a picturesque Queen Anne house that one would have recognized at once, with its lower story of red brick, its upper part covered with red tiles, its windows of every size and shape, as the inspiration of Kate Greenaway’s pictures.  As it turned out later, Miss Greenaway’s sister opened the door and told the visitor that Miss Greenaway was not at home.

“But, pardon me, has not Miss Greenaway returned?  Is not that she?” asked Bok, as he indicated a figure just coming down the stairs.  And as the sister turned to see, Bok stepped into the hall.  At least he was inside!  Bok had never seen a photograph of Miss Greenaway, he did not know that the figure coming down-stairs was the artist; but his instinct had led him right, and good fortune was with him.

He now introduced himself to Kate Greenaway, and explained that one of his objects in coming to London was to see her on behalf of thousands of American children.  Naturally there was nothing for the illustrator to do but to welcome her visitor.  She took him into the garden, where he saw at once that he was seated under the apple-tree of Miss Greenaway’s pictures.  It was in full bloom, a veritable picture of spring loveliness.  Bok’s love for nature pleased the artist and when he recognized the cat that sauntered up, he could see that he was making head-way.  But when he explained his profession and stated his errand, the atmosphere instantly changed.  Miss Greenaway conveyed the unmistakable impression that she had been trapped, and Bok realized at once that he had a long and difficult road ahead.