to Ramon, to a Spaniard talking in that way about the defeat of my
countrymen by his. I walked across the King's Square, and the stage
driving up just then, I went to the office, and got my correspondence.

Veronica's letter came like a faint echo, like the sound of very distant
surf, heard at night; it seemed impossible that any one could be as
interested as she in the things that were happening over there. She had
had a son; one of Ralph's aunts was its godmother. She and Ralph had
been to Bath last spring; the country wanted water very badly. Ralph had
used his influence, had explained matters to a very great personage,
had spent a little money on the injured runners. In the meanwhile I had
nearly forgotten the whole matter; it seemed to be extraordinary that
they should still be interested in it.

I was to come back; as soon as it was safe I was to come back; that was
the main tenor of the letter.

I read it in a little house of call, in a whitewashed room that
contained a cardboard cat labelled "The Best," for sole ornament. Four
swarthy fellows, Mexican patriots, were talking noisily about their War
of Independence, and the exploits of a General Trapelascis, who had
been defeating the Spanish troops over there. It was almost impossible
to connect them with a world that included Veronica's delicate
handwriting with the pencil lines erased at the base of each line of
ink. They seemed to be infinitely more real. Even Veronica's interest
in me seemed a little strange; her desire for my return irritated me. It
was as if she had asked me to return to a state of bondage, after having
found myself. Thinking of it made me suddenly aware that I had become a
man, with a man's aims, and a disillusionized view of life. It suddenly
appeared very wonderful that I could sit calmly there, surveying, for