I
Suppose It Is, Too, If One Can Only Become Reconciled To Doing
Without Most Of The Comforts Which Make Life Worth While In America
Or Anywhere Else.
Included among this class are many rather unhappy
old ladies who somehow impress you as having been shunted off to
foreign parts because there were no places for them in the homes
of their children and their grandchildren.
So now they are spending
their last years among strangers, trying with a desperate eagerness
to be interested in people and things for which they really care
not a fig, with no home except a cheerless pension.
Also there are certain folk - products, in the main, of the Eastern
seaboard - who, from having originally lived in America and spent
most of their time abroad, have now progressed to the point where
they now live mostly abroad and visit America fleetingly once in
a blue moon. As a rule these persons know a good deal about Europe
and very little about the country that gave them birth. The
stock-talk of European literature is at their tongue's tip. They
speak of Ibsen in the tone of one mourning the passing of a near,
dear, personal friend, and as for Zola - ah, how they miss the
influence of his compelling personality! But for the moment they
cannot recall whether Richard K. Fox ran the Police Gazette or
wrote the "Trail of the Lonesome Pine."
They are up on the history of the Old World. From memory they
trace the Bourbon dynasty from the first copper-distilled Charles
to the last sourmashed Louis.
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