"A little while ago," said Boon, suddenly struggling with his trouser
pocket and producing some pieces of paper, "I sketched out a novel,
and as it was rather in the manner of Henry James I think perhaps you
might be interested by it now. So much, that is, as there is of it. It
is to be called 'The Spoils of Mr. Blandish,' and it is all about this
particular business of the selective life. Mr. Blandish, as I saw him,
was pretty completely taken from the James ideal.... He was a man with
an exquisite apprehension of particulars, with just that sense of
there being a rightness attainable, a fitness, a charm, a finish....
In any little affair.... He believed that in speech and still more
that in writing there was an inevitable right word, in actions great
and small a mellowed etiquette, in everything a possible perfection.
He was, in fact, the very soul of Henry James--as I understand it....
This sort of man--
[Illustration: _Mr. Blandish going delicately through life. "Oh no! oh
no! But _Yes!_ and _This is it!_"_]
"Going delicately."