My dear Phylis: Picture to yourself the positively firework succession of events and regrets in the last few days. I received sailing orders—I like to pretend that I am in the navy—packed my things, met you, saw you three times in three days, desired greatly that my ship go without me, said "Good-by" to you, answered your absurd note, by so doing missed my ship, caught her in a tug-boat—at a vast outlay of capital, which you must repay me by a real letter—and here I am in a lifting corner of the smoking-room, listening to the bone being ground in the teeth of the ship, the slap of the water alongside, smelling salt—do you know the smell of apples in autumn and the smell of salt at sea move my heart like bugle-calls?—and picturing to myself your great, cool house, the wide verandas, the shady trees, the bowl of roses on the dining-table, the alarums and ex-
