asleep."

At Srinagar, a native _fête_ had been in progress, and the howling of
men and din of _tom-toms_ had somewhat marred the harmony of their
arrival. But it was all interesting, like an absorbing fairy-tale, she
said, but quite unreal. She felt sure it couldn't be true. Ralph had
been disgusted with the hubbub and confusion. He compared the place to
an asylum of filthy lunatics, and they had left it without delay. And so
at last they had come to their present abiding-place in the heart of the
wilderness with coolies, pack-horses, and tents, and were camped beside
a rushing stream that filled the air with its crystal music day and
night. "And this is Heaven," wrote Stella; "but it is the Heaven of the
Orient, and I am not sure that I have any part or lot in it. I believe I
shall feel myself an interloper for all time. I dread to turn each
corner lest I should meet the Angel with the Flaming Sword and be driven
forth into the desert. If only you were here, Tommy, it would be more
real to me. But Ralph is just a part of the dream. He is almost like an
Eastern potentate himself with his endless cigarettes and his wonderful
capacity for doing nothing all day long without being bored. Of course,
I am not bored, but then no one ever feels bored in a dream. The lazy
well-being of it all has the effect of a narcotic so far as I am
concerned. I cannot imagine ever feeling active in this lulling
atmosphere. Perhaps there is too much champagne in the air and I am
never wholly sober. Perhaps it is only in the desert that any one ever
lives to the utmost. The endless singing of the stream is hushing me
into a sweet drowsiness even as I write. By the way, I wonder if I have
written sense. If not, forgive me! But I am much too lazy to read it
through. I think I must have eaten of the lotus. Good-bye, Tommy dear!
Write when you can and tell me that all is well with you, as I think it
must be--though I cannot tell--with your always loving, though for the