This won't be a tidy letter, for I am sitting close beside the
rail--has it a nautical name? I don't know--and every few minutes the
spray comes over and wets the paper and incidentally myself. _And_
the fountain-pen! I greatly fear it leaks, for my middle finger is
blackened beyond hope of cleansing, and though not ten minutes ago Mr.
Brand inked himself very comprehensively filling it for me, already it
requires frequent shakings to make it write at all. I thought it would
be a blessing, it threatens to become a curse. I foresee that very
shortly I shall descend again to a pencil, or write my letters with
the aid of scratchy pens and fat, respectable ink-pots in the stuffy
music-room.
You will have two letters from Port Said. The one I wrote you two days
ago finished in deep melancholy, but to-day it is so good to be alive
I could shout with joy. I woke this morning with a jump of delight,
and even Mrs. Albert Murray--she of the hat-box and the many
teeth--could not irritate me, and you can't think how many irritating
ways the woman has. It is 10 a.m. and we have just come up from
breakfast, and have got our deck-chairs placed where they will catch
every breeze (and some salt water), and, with a pile of books and two
boxes of chocolate, are comfortably settled for the day.
You ask about the passengers.
We have all sorts and conditions. Quiet people who read and work
all day; rowdy people who never seem happy unless they are throwing
cushions or pulling one another downstairs by the feet; painfully
enterprising people who get up sports, sweeps, concerts, and dances,
and are full of a tiresome, misplaced energy; bridge-loving people who
play from morning till night; flirtatious people who frequent dark
corners; happy people who laugh; sad people who sniff; and one man who
can't be classed with anyone else, a sad gentleman, his hair standing
fiercely on end, a Greek Testament his constant and only companion.
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