He wondered what the new class would be like in the fall, the class to which he would become official adviser, the individual members whom he would come to know through many a personal conference. He was honored that he had been chosen in this capacity, honored that he should have been considered wise and sympathetic and interested enough to give youth that most difficult of all things, “advice.” He felt the responsibility keenly, and hoped with all his heart that he would at least be able to give each of these young people something of what they thought they wanted.—He was honored, also, that the work on which he had been spending so much time and thought for so long had at last been accepted by a publishing house. Heaven knew they would get little out of it in the way of financial return; it was a “prestige job” merely, as they said in the trade; but perhaps the few hundred who would be able to bring to the book a tithe of what he himself, after hundreds of hours, had brought to it, would acclaim the work for what he intended it: a serious study of a serious subject, and one worth having been done. He expected no substantial honors from The Tragic Ideal; but he did expect—and want—an increase of standing in the profession, and perhaps half a dozen understanding letters which told him their writers knew what he had been driving at, had many times had the same ideas themselves, but had not thought themselves up to expressing these ideas half so well: surely the best tribute a writer can have—all he writes for, in fact.