The young lady with whom I was dining last night was Miss Anna Pellissier. And as a natural consequence, they don’t do so well, and they don’t get on—and so the world doesn’t pay them. She was quivering with the sense of Capes at her side and glowing with heroic love; it seemed to her that if they put their hands jointly against the Alps and pushed they would be able to push them aside. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook.
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