We live on the topmost floor of this house far away from the surging life of the town. Only the crest of the swell of the London street noise reaches me, gently undulating like those clustering tree-tops of Kensington Gardens, that I watch from my window. The long and persistent spell of bad weather seems to have exhausted its spite and the mellowed light of the morning sun from behind the fleecy clouds is greeting me like the smile of a child whose eyes are still heavy with sleep. It is nearly seven o’clock and every one of our party, including Pearson, is fast asleep within shut doors and behind drawn blinds. To-day is our last day in London and I am not sorry to leave it. I wish it were the day for sailing home, but that day looks hazily indistinct in the distance and my heart aches.
I am sure you have heard from Pearson all about the performance of my plays and my lecture about the Bauls. I am a bad historian. I cannot remember facts, even the most recent, and most important. For this reason, as a letter writer, I am a failure as in many other vocations of life. Fortunately I can talk upon nothing when I wish, and this saves me, in my correspondence, from utter disaster.