CHAPTER XV.
KENELM retraced his steps homeward under the shade of his "old hereditary trees." One might have thought his path along the greenswards, and by the side of the babbling rivulet, was pleasanter and more conducive to peaceful thoughts than the broad, dusty thoroughfare along which plodded the wanderer he had quitted.

But the man addicted to revery forms his own landscapes and colours his own skies.
"It is," soliloquized Kenelm Chillingly, "a strange yearning I have long felt,--to get out of myself, to get, as it were, into another man's skin, and have a little variety of thought and emotion.

One's self is always the same self; and that is why I yawn so often.

But if I can't get into another man's skin, the next best thing is to get as unlike myself as I possibly can do.

Let me see what is myself.