To-day it was determined that we ought to leave Peli as soon as the
hot weather sets in,--perhaps in the middle of April,--and go to
Switzerland. Even that terrifies me. I fancy Mrs. Davis will have to
place her husband under restraint; he shows symptoms of insanity. He
says not a word for whole days, but sits staring either at the floor
or at his finger-nails; he is afraid they will come off. These are
with him the consequences of a wild life and narcotics.

I leave off writing as it is our time for sailing.


2 April.

Yesterday there was a thunderstorm. A strong southern wind drove the
clouds along as a herd of wild horses. It pulled and tore, chased
and scattered them, then got them under and threw them with a mighty
effort upon the sea, which darkened instantly as man in wrath, and
began in its turn to send its foam aloft,--a veritable battle of two
furies, which, battering each other, produce thunder and lightning
flashes. But all this lasted only a short time. We did not go out to
sea, as the waves were too rough. Instead of it we looked at the storm
from the glazed balcony, and sometimes looked at each other. It is no
use deluding myself any longer; there is something going on between
us,--a subtle change in our relations to each other. Neither of us has
said a word or overstepped the boundary line of friendship; neither
has confessed to anything, and yet speaking to each other we feel that
our words serve only to disguise our thoughts. It is the same when we
are in the boat, reading together, or when I listen to her music.
All our acts seem mere shadows,--an outward form that hides the real
essence of things, with its face still veiled, but following us