I have
a good mind to tear this up, but after all what does it matter? My
silly little observations won't make any impression on your masculine
mind. Only don't say "Spiteful little cat," because I don't mean to
be, really.
This is much the longest letter I ever wrote. You will have to read a
page at a time and then take a long breath and try again.
Mr. Brand has just come up to ask us why a sculptor dies a horrible
death? Do you know?
_S.S. Scotia, Nov. 6_.
No one unendowed with the temper of an angel and the patience of a Job
should attempt the voyage to India. Mrs. Albert Murray has neither of
these qualifications any more than I have, and for two days she hasn't
deigned to address a remark to G. or me, all because of a lost pair of
stockings; a loss which we treated with unseemly levity. However, the
chill haughtiness of our cabin companion is something of a relief in
this terrible heat. For it _is_ hot. I am writing in the cabin, and in
spite of the fact that there are two electric fans buzzing on either
side of me, I am hotter than I can say, and deplorably ill-tempered.
Four times this morning, trying to keep out of Mrs. Albert Murray's
way, I have fallen over that wretched hat-box, still here despite our
hints about the baggage-room, and now in revenge I am sitting on it,
though what the owner would say, if she came in suddenly and found to
what base uses I had put her treasure, I dare not let myself think. G.
has a bad headache, and it is dull for her to be alone, so that is
the reason why I am in the cabin at all.
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