It has nothing whatever to do with Jaffery Chayne or Liosha--except perhaps to shew that there is no reason why a Tierra del Fuegan foundling should not run across his long-lost brother on Michigan Avenue, and still less reason why Albanian male should not meet Albanian female in Armour's stockyards.

And besides, considering that I was egged on, as I said on the first page, to write these memoirs, I really don't see why I should not put into them anything I choose.
An English novelist of my acquaintance visiting Chicago received a representative of a great daily newspaper who desired to interview him.
The interviewer was a typical American reporter, blue-eyed, high cheekboned, keen, nervous, finely strung, courteous, intensely alive, desirous to get to the heart of my friend's mystery, and charmingly responsive to his frank welcome.

They talked.

My friend, to give the young man his story, discoursed on Chicago's amazingly solved problem of the conglomeration of all the races under Heaven.

To point his remarks and mark his contrasts he used the words "we English" and "you Americans." After a time the young man smiled and said: "But am not an American--at least I'm an American citizen, but I'm not a born American." "But," cried my friend, "you're the essence of America." "No," said the young man, "I'm an Icelander." Thus it was natural for Liosha's father to find an Albanian wife in Chicago.