sits for hours in perfect silence, with her eyes fixed on the
horizon. I heard her say yesterday to an English gentleman--a very
odd Mr. Antrobus, the only person with whom she converses--that she
was afraid she shouldn't like her native land, and that she
shouldn't like not liking it. But this is a mistake--she will like
that immensely (I mean not liking it). If it should prove at all
agreeable, mamma will be furious, for that will go against her
system. You know all about mamma's system; I have explained that so
often. It goes against her system that we should come back at all;
that was MY system--I have had at last to invent one! She consented
to come only because she saw that, having no dot, I should never
marry in Europe; and I pretended to be immensely pre-occupied with
this idea, in order to make her start. In reality cela m'est
parfaitement egal. I am only afraid I shall like it too much (I
don't mean marriage, of course, but one's native land). Say what
you will, it's a charming thing to go out alone, and I have given
notice to mamma that I mean to be always en course. When I tell her
that, she looks at me in the same silence; her eye dilates, and then
she slowly closes it. It's as if the sea were affecting her a
little, though it's so beautifully calm. I ask her if she will try
my bromide, which is there in my bag; but she motions me off, and I
begin to walk again, tapping my little boot-soles upon the smooth
clean deck. This allusion to my boot-soles, by the way, is not
prompted by vanity; but it's a fact that at sea one's feet and one's
shoes assume the most extraordinary importance, so that we should
take the precaution to have nice ones. They are all you seem to see
as the people walk about the deck; you get to know them intimately,
and to dislike some of them so much. I am afraid you will think
that I have already broken loose; and for aught I know, I am writing
as a demoiselle bien-elevee should not write. I don't know whether