In Winter Quarters 



is another of the ancient " Street of the 

 Clock" in Rouen, that appeals un- 

 failingly to my imagination. Then 

 there is a really nice example of Hedley 

 Fitten's handiwork hanging just be- 

 hind me as I write. It talks by the 

 hour of Guelph and Ghibbeline, Cel- 

 lini and Boccaccio; of all the wealth of 

 song and story that the fair city of the 

 Arno poured out into the world. The 

 Loggia dei Lanzi in old Firenze! Then, 

 too, a softly tinted rare old view of 

 Windsor Castle sometimes calls for 

 comment. But the masterpiece, the 

 presiding genius of the little room of 

 which I speak, my Perseus, is seldom 

 noticed; save by some dreamer of 

 dreams some visionary non-conform- 

 ist probably like myself. 



I know little enough about art in 

 any technical sense. But I know its 

 power. I can feel its presence. We 

 know that it forms the connecting link 

 between ourselves and the universe of 

 which we are all a part, and that the 

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