blood-curdling detective stories, vile things in paper covers, which
he keeps concealed about his person, and whips out at odd moments.
What he hates is a book with the slightest hint of a love affair. I
found him disgustedly punching a book with his fist and muttering
(evidently to the hero), "I know you, I know you, you're in love with
her," in tones of bitter scorn. When I begin to speak about Peter I
can't stop, and forget how tiresome it must be for people to listen. I
apologize, but please bear with me when I enlarge upon this brother of
mine; I simply must, sometimes.

How good of you to write such a long letter! Of course I shall write
often and at length, but you must promise not to be bored, or expect
too much. I fear you won't get anything very wise or witty from
me. You know how limited I am. The fairies, when they came to my
christening, might have come better provided with gifts. But then, I
expect they have only a certain number of gifts for each family, so
I don't in the least blame them for giving the boys the brains and
giving me--what? At the moment I can't think of anything they did give
me except a heart that keeps on the windy side of care, as Beatrice
puts it; and hair that curls naturally. I have no grudge against the
fairies. If they had given me straight hair and brains I might have
been a Suffragist and shamed my kin by biting a policeman; and _that_
would have been a pity.


_Later_.

G. and I are crouched in a corner, very awed and sad. A poor man died
suddenly yesterday from heart failure, and the funeral is just over. I
do hope I shall never again see a burial at sea. It was terrible. The