For the present my face is neither east nor west—the duplicate direction of home—but north to Bombay, for Tomas Beauling is going on a pleasure trip with his well-gotten gains; but then the face will be for home. Sixteen thousand miles! I deride the whole circumference of the globe, let alone a mere segment.
I must carry this to the home mail.
Always faithfully,
T. B.
Dear Phylis: You will perhaps think in your charitable mind that a letter from me to you has been written and has miscarried, and that that is the reason you have not heard for so long a time from your faithful servant. No. I have not written to you for two months, nor have I written to anybody nor known that there was anybody to write to. I have had one of these Eastern fevers—whether jungle or pearl I do not know—which baffle the wise, and must cure itself or not be cured. Well, I seem to be over it, but you wouldn't bow to me if you met me
