Well, remember, you are not to
feel that the road isn't clear before you. I promise you not to feel
aggrieved. I shan't wonder how my infinite variety could have palled.
I know that all men--men who are men--at times hear the Red Gods call
them (women hear them too, you know, only they have more self-control;
they find their peace in fearful innocence and household laws), and
I shall be waiting on the doorstep when you return from climbing
Kangchenjunga, or exploring the Bramahputra Gorges, ready to say,
"Come away in, for I'm sure you must be tired."
Arthur, dear, am I a disappointing person, do you find? Ought I to be
able to write you different sorts of letters, tenderer, more loving
letters? But, you see, it wouldn't be me if I could. My heart may be,
indeed, I think it is, full of the warmest instincts, but they have
been unwinged from birth so they can't fly to you. One of the most
talkative people living, in some ways I am strangely speechless. Why!
I haven't even told Boggley, though if he had eyes to see instead of
being the blindest of dear old bats, my shining face would betray
me. I keep on smiling in a perfectly imbecile manner, so that people
exclaim, "Well, you are indecently glad to get away," and when they
ask Why? I point them to the scene in the Old Testament where Hadad
said unto Pharaoh, "_Let me depart, that I may go to mine own
country." Then Pharaoh said unto him, "But what hast thou lacked with
me, that, behold, thou seekest to go to thine own country?" And he
answered, "Nothing: howbeit let me go in any wise_.
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