to you just now, when I can shut my eyes to to-morrow, I haven't much fault to find with Fate. You remember that weird story of Hawthorne's, about the man who walked out of his own house one morning, took lodgings in a neighbouring street, disguised himself, and watched for years the agony of his wife, who gave him up for dead? At last the desire for home came over him again; he knocked at his own door and went in; there the story ends.
My position is like that of Hawthorne's hero, without the tragedy. When shall I return to my own home? I cannot tell. I have stepped out of my own sphere into another, and sometimes I have an odd sense of detachment, as if I were floating in a void. It is only when I am writing to you or when I get letters from the world I have left that I feel the link which unites me with the past. Since I left Paris I have had only four letters from my world, which have fallen into Brown's world like strange reminders of another existence. I have had your own welcome words, and a letter from my mother at Cannes (I gave her my address at Poitiers } telling me of the arrival there of Jabez Barrow with his "one fair daughter, " and urging me to haste. As. if I should rush from the society of the Goddess in the car to the opulent charms (in both senses) of Miss Barrow! It appears that Jabez the Rich does, not care for Cannes, but sighs for Italy, and that my mother has promised to "personally conduct" them to Rome. She wants me to reach Cannes before they leave, or if that's impossible, to abandon my car and follow by rail to Rome, lest I "miss this
