The man who awakens one fine morning in his London residence, scratches his head, and says, "What shall I do to-day?
By Jove! I'll start for Timbuctoo!" is to me an incomprehensible, incomplete being.

He lacks an aesthetic sense.
I did not dare tell Judith she lacked an aesthetic sense.

I might just as well have accused her of stealing silver spoons.

I said I should miss her (which I certainly shall), and promised to write to her once a week.
"And you," said I, "will have heaps of time to write me the History of a Sequestered and Meditative Self--meanwhile, let us go out somewhere and dine." When I got home, I found a card on my hall-table.

"Mr.Sebastian Pasquale." I am sorry I missed Pasquale.