the idea comes, How do I seem to him?  I realize that he is alive; a tiny mite of hunger for life, of fear and resolution.  I think, How lonely he must be!  And I want to tell him that I love him, and would not hurt him for the world; but I have no way to make him understand me, and all I can do is to go away and leave him.  I go, thinking what a strange place the world is, with so many living things, each shut away apart by himself, unable to understand the others or make the others understand him.  This is what is called philosophy, is it not?  Tell me some books where these things are explained....

“I am reading all you sent me.  When I grew tired of exploring the key, I lay down in the shade of a palm-tree, and read—­guess what?  ‘Number Five John Street’!  So all this loveliness vanished, and I was back in the world’s nightmare.  An extraordinary book!  I decided that it would be good for my husband, so I read him a few paragraphs; but I found that it only irritated him.  He wants me to rest, he says—­he can’t see why I’ve come away to the Florida Keys to read about the slums of London.

“My hope of gradually influencing his mind has led to a rather appalling discovery—­that he has the same intention as regards me!  He too has brought a selection of books, and reads to me a few pages every day, and explains what they mean.  He calls this resting!  I am no match for him, of course—­I never realized more keenly the worthlessness of my education.  But I see in a general way where his arguments tend—­that life is something that has grown, and is not in the power of men to change; but even if he could convince me of this, I should not find it a source of joy.  I have a feeling always that if you were here, you would know something to answer.

“The truth is that I am so pained by the conflict between us that I cannot argue at all.  I find myself wondering what our marriage would have been like if we had discovered that we had the same ideas and interests.  There are days and nights at a time when I tell myself that I ought to believe what my husband believes, that I ought never have allowed myself to think of anything else.  But that really won’t do as a life-programme; I tried it years ago with my dear mother and father.  Did I ever tell you that my mother is firmly convinced in her heart that I am to suffer eternally in a real hell of fire because I do not believe certain things about the Bible?  She still has visions of it—­though not so bad since she turned me over to a husband!

“Now it is my husband who is worried about my ideas.  He is reading a book by Burke, a well-known old writer.  The book deals with English history, which I don’t know much about, but I see that it resents modern changes, and the whole spirit of change.  And Mary, why can’t I feel that way?  I really ought to love those old and stately things, I ought to be reverent to the past; I was brought up that way.  Sometimes I tremble when I realize how very flippant and cynical I am.  I seem to see the wrong side of everything, so that I couldn’t believe in it if I wanted to!”