it to be untrue—­those few who read it, that is—­but they scorned to notice it.  They resented it, but to an astonishing extent they ignored it.  The title of it got to mean very little to them save a general term of cheap and unmerited opprobrium, like some insulting epithet in a foreign language which one knows one would dislike if one could understand it.  It is necessary to grasp these first simple facts to appreciate the following episode: 

A certain young Villager—­I shall not give his name, but he is an artist of growing and striking reputation, dark-eyed and rather attractive looking—­burst into a friend’s studio pale with anger: 

“See here, have you a copy of ’The Trufflers’?”

“Not guilty,” swore the surprised friend.  “Why on earth do you want—­”

But the young artist had dashed forth again, hot upon his quest.  A few houses down the street, he made another spectacular entrance with the same cry;—­at another and still another.  One friend frankly confessed he had never heard of the book, another expressed indignation that he should be suspected of owning a copy.  But not until the temperamental, brown-eyed artist had visited several acquaintances was he able to get what he wanted.

When the long-sought volume was in his grasp, he heaved a sigh of something more emphatic than relief.

“How much did you pay for this thing?” he demanded.

“I didn’t.  I borrowed it.”

“Oh—­ See here.  Can’t you say you lost it?”

“I suppose so, if you want it as much as all that.”

The young artist sat down and began seriously to tear the book to pieces.

“Well, for the love of Mike!” cried the friend.  “Do you hate it like that?”

“I never read more than three pages of it,” said the artist, steadily tearing, “but a slumming creature, a girl from uptown came into the ‘Pirate’s Den’ yesterday where I was sitting, and, after staring at me fascinatedly for five minutes, leaned over to me and murmured breathlessly: 

“‘Oh, tell me, aren’t you a Truffler?’ I couldn’t wring her neck, and so—­”

Another handful of torn pages fluttered from his hand.

Of course, there are always the faddists and theorists, who take their ideals as hard as mumps or measles.  Because the Village is so kind to new ideas, these flourish there for a time.

Here is a little tale told about a certain talented and charming lady who had a very complete set of theories and wished to try them out on Greenwich.  One of her pet theories was that The People were naturally aesthetic; that The People’s own untutored instinct would always unerringly select the best; that it was an insult to the noble idealism of The People to try to educate them; they were, so to speak, born with an education, ready-made, automatic, in sound working order from the beginning.  Now, anyone almost may have theories, but if they are wise souls they won’t try to apply them.  If they have never been practically tested they can’t be proved fallacious and thus may be treasured and loved and petted indefinitely, to the comfort of the individual and the edification of the multitude.  But this fair idealist would not let well enough alone.  She wanted to put her favourite theory to the acid test.  So this is what she did.