Présentation de l'éditeur
Some sort of excuse or apology is due the public or such portion thereof as may read this book. It was not born a book. It was originally a diary a mere mass of notes. Consideration for stay-at-home relatives and friends induced some enlargement of original plans and finally, interest in the work itself bespoke for it every spare minute, on railroad trains, in carriages, between courses at dinner and before retiring at night. Still there was no thought of a book. All confessions are similar. No one ever sees the final plunge when taking his first step in crime. Part two of the confession shifts the blame to some one else. The journal was read to friends, who suggested publication. They did not urge it. They rather hinted that, as modern literature went, no one need despair of an audience and emphasized the fact that it does not require genius to publish a book, but nerve. Having made up his mind to do it, the author naturally sought a motive which would excuse him to himself.
(Typographical errors above are due to OCR software and don't occur in the book.)
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