But go on. Cynicism is a small brass field-piece that eventually
bursts and kills the artilleryman.

You may abuse me as much as you like, and I'll not complain; for I
don't know what I should do without your letters. They are curing
me. I haven't hurled anything at Watkins since last Sunday, partly
because I have grown more amiable under your teaching, and partly
because Watkins captured my ammunition one night, and carried it
off to the library. He is rapidly losing the habit he had acquired
of dodging whenever I rub my ear, or make any slight motion with my
right arm. He is still suggestive of the wine-cellar, however. You
may break, you may shatter Watkins, if you will, but the scent of
the Roederer will hang round him still.

Ned, that Miss Daw must be a charming person. I should certainly
like her. I like her already. When you spoke in your first letter
of seeing a young girl swinging in a hammock under your chamber
window, I was somehow strangely drawn to her. I cannot account for
it in the least. What you have subsequently written of Miss Daw has
strengthened the impression. You seem to be describing a woman I
have known in some previous state of existence, or dreamed of in
this. Upon my word, if you were to send me her photograph, I
believe I should recognize her at a glance. Her manner, that
listening attitude, her traits of character, as you indicate them,
the light hair and the dark eyes--they are all familiar things to
me. Asked a lot of questions, did she? Curious about me? That is
strange.

You would laugh in your sleeve, you wretched old cynic, if you knew
how I lie awake nights, with my gas turned down to a star, thinking