Everyone is flying about writing luggage labels, and getting their
boxes up from the hold, and counting things. Curiously enough, I
am feeling rather depressed; the end of anything is horrid, even a
loathed sea-voyage. After all, it isn't a bad old ship, and the people
have been nice. To-night I am filled with kindness to everyone. Even
Mrs. Albert Murray seems to swim in a rosy and golden haze, and I am
conscious of quite an affection for her, though I expect, when in a
little I go down to the cabin and find her fussing and accusing us of
losing her things, I shall dislike her again with some intensity. We
have all laughed and played and groaned together, and now we part. No,
I _shan't_ say "Ships that pass in the night." Several people--mothers
whose babies I have held and others--have given me their cards and a
cordial invitation to go and stay with them for as long as I like.
They mean it now, I know, but in a month's time shall we even remember
each other's names?
It will be a real grief to part to-morrow from Mrs. Crawley and
Mrs. Wilmot. The dear women! I wish they had been going to stay in
Calcutta, but they go straight away up country. Are there, I wonder,
many such charming women in India? It seems improbable. I shall miss
all the people at our table: we have been such a gay company. Major
Wilmot says G. and I have kept them all amused and made the voyage
pleasant, but that is only his kind way. It is quite true, though,
what Mrs.
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