"To arrive at these things is to arrive at my story," he said, "and that＇s the way I look for it. The result is that I＇m often accused of not having ＇story＇ enough. I seem to myself to have as much as I need—to show my people, to exhibit their relations with each other; for that is all my measure. If I watch them long enough I see them come together, I see them placed, I see them engaged in this or that act and in this or that dif昀culty.How they look and move and speak and behave,always in the setting I have found for them, is my account of them—of which I dare say, alas, que celamanque souvent d＇architecture. But I would rather,I think, have too little architecture than too much—when there＇s danger of its interfering with my measure of the truth. The French of course like more of it than I give—having by their own genius such a hand for it;and indeed one must give all one can. As for the origin of one＇s wind-blown germs themselves, who shall say,as you ask, where they come from? We have to go too far back, too far behind, to say. Isn＇t it all we can say that they come from every quarter of heaven, that they are there at almost any turn of the road? They accumulate, and we are always picking them over,selecting among them. They are the breath of life—by which I mean that life, in its own way, breathes them upon us. They are so, in a manner prescribed and imposed—昀oated into our minds by the current of life.That reduces to imbecility the vain critic＇s quarrel,so often, with one＇s subject, when he hasn＇t the wit to accept it. Will he point out then which other it should properly have been?—his office being, essentially to point out. Il en serait bien embarrassé. Ah, when he points out what I＇ve done or failed to do with it, that＇s another matter: there he＇s on his ground. I give him up my ＇sarchitecture,＇" my distinguished friend concluded,"as much as he will."