on about sheets, and I longed to tell my distracted host that I had
all my bedding with me in a strap; but the thought that he might
consider me "ondelicate," like Mr. Glegg, deterred me. Presently I was
shown into what, only too evidently, was our host's own room, for a
servant snatched away some last remaining effects of his master--a
spatter-brush and a slipper--as I entered. I sat down on the bed and
pondered over what I would have felt had I been a man, and shy, and
seedy, and a strange female had been suddenly shot into my peaceful
home.

It was rather a difficult week-end. I have met men who were difficult
to talk to, but never one like Mr. Ferris, who, while willing, indeed
anxious, to be agreeable, so absolutely annihilated conversation. It
wasn't till dinner on Sunday night that I discovered a subject that
really interested him--London restaurants. He grew quite animated as
we discussed the relative merits of the Ritz, the Carlton, the Savoy,
the Dieudonné. I think that long, thin, bald, gentle bachelor
spends all his spare moments--and he must have many in lonely
Misanpore--thinking about his next leave and the feasts he will then
enjoy. Yet the odd thing is he isn't greedy about food. I think it
must be more the lights and music and people that attract him.

Mr. Ferris and Boggley were away all Sunday, and I spent the whole day
with a volume of Dana Gibson's drawings, the only book I could find.
I did go for a short walk, but the dust was nearly knee-deep, and,
except the little bungalow and outhouses, there was absolutely nothing
to see.

Yesterday again Boggley had to go and inspect some place, so it was
decided he would bicycle there, and then pick me up at some station we