“Why, there’s no W in dandelions,” said Sarah, in surprise.

The young man drew the bill of fare from his pocket, and pointed to a line.

Sarah recognised the first card she had typewritten that afternoon.  There was still the rayed splotch in the upper right-hand corner where a tear had fallen.  But over the spot where one should have read the name of the meadow plant, the clinging memory of their golden blossoms had allowed her fingers to strike strange keys.

Between the red cabbage and the stuffed green peppers was the item: 

“DEAREST WALTER, WITH HARD-BOILED EGG.”

THE GREEN DOOR

Suppose you should be walking down Broadway after dinner, with ten minutes allotted to the consummation of your cigar while you are choosing between a diverting tragedy and something serious in the way of vaudeville.  Suddenly a hand is laid upon your arm.  You turn to look into the thrilling eyes of a beautiful woman, wonderful in diamonds and Russian sables.  She thrusts hurriedly into your hand an extremely hot buttered roll, flashes out a tiny pair of scissors, snips off the second button of your overcoat, meaningly ejaculates the one word, “parallelogram!” and swiftly flies down a cross street, looking back fearfully over her shoulder.

That would be pure adventure.  Would you accept it?  Not you.  You would flush with embarrassment; you would sheepishly drop the roll and continue down Broadway, fumbling feebly for the missing button.  This you would do unless you are one of the blessed few in whom the pure spirit of adventure is not dead.

True adventurers have never been plentiful.  They who are set down in print as such have been mostly business men with newly invented methods.  They have been out after the things they wanted—­golden fleeces, holy grails, lady loves, treasure, crowns and fame.  The true adventurer goes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet and greet unknown fate.  A fine example was the Prodigal Son—­when he started back home.

Half-adventurers—­brave and splendid figures—­have been numerous.  From the Crusades to the Palisades they have enriched the arts of history and fiction and the trade of historical fiction.  But each of them had a prize to win, a goal to kick, an axe to grind, a race to run, a new thrust in tierce to deliver, a name to carve, a crow to pick—­so they were not followers of true adventure.

In the big city the twin spirits Romance and Adventure are always abroad seeking worthy wooers.  As we roam the streets they slyly peep at us and challenge us in twenty different guises.  Without knowing why, we look up suddenly to see in a window a face that seems to belong to our gallery of intimate portraits; in a sleeping thoroughfare we hear a cry of agony and fear coming from an empty and shuttered house; instead of at our familiar curb, a cab-driver deposits us before a strange door, which one, with a smile,