Andrew Lang

I SAW him only once—and that was in Edinburgh, thirty‐seven years ago. He had just arrived (as I heard later from one who knew him, and to whom I announced with youthful joy my glimpse of him) from St. Andrews, had been examining the bookshops, book‐dips, in the neighbourhood of the University and, with an armful of volumes, was returning from the auld toon to the new one on his way to Mackay and Chisholm's in Princes Street to buy an opal ring.