ABSTRACT
T oward the end of October, 1923, I arrived in New York. The voyage had been a pleasant one. The rates—cabin class—were low; the food was plentiful. For twelve days I had, every day, enough to eat and no worry as to how to pay for it—in fact, I thought the crossing much too short. At Southampton many Americans had come aboard, most of them tourists who had spent the summer traveling about England, France, and Italy. I made friends and exercised my English on a pair of New York music critics, a schoolteacher with a Grecian nose, and a physician’s daughter of my own age who tried her best and failed to arouse me to the charms of a suburban idyl in the environs of Cleveland.
