It is the utter loneliness of it that makes me cry!

S.S.  Scotia, Oct. 29.

...  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.  We pine to know who and what he is and where he is going.  Yesterday I found myself beside him at tea.  I might not have existed for all the notice he took of me.  “Speak to him,” said G. in my ear.  “You don’t dare!”

Of course after that I had to, so pinching G’s arm to give myself courage, I said in a small voice, “Are you enjoying the voyage?”

He turned, regarded me with his sad prominent eyes.  “Do I look as if I enjoyed it?” asked this Monsieur Melancholy, and went back to his bread-and-butter.  G. choked, and I finished my tea hurriedly and in silence.