The girl of whom I have written a fair amount, and whom has earned herself on this blog the image of being clad in a striped blouse, is no fancy of mine; or more rightly, no longer is. And if that latter proclamation inspires any amusement, I shall tell you quite squarely that it was nothing too serious; nothing out of which ought to emerge any interest or frivolous hearsay. It was merely a transient, childish bout of infatuation, which I believe many others fallen into at least once before, and to which they often look back with a rosy embarrassment. Anyway, seeing then how I had come to like her, I sought to make good use of the opportunity. I wrote using the fervor of my passion; and thus would all my expressions bear the magical force of organic emotion, of honest flutters in the heart. And so now, if I write of a girl, know that it is not of her in the striped blouse, but someone else entirely. Or perhaps even no one at all.