But how
have I been cruel?
I walked home. There is nothing so consoling to the depressed
man as the unmitigated misery of a walk through the London rain.
One is not mocked by any factitious gaiety. The mind is in
harmony with the sodden universe. It is well to have everything
in the world wrong at one and the same time.
I have changed my drenched garments for dressing-gown and
slippers. I find on my writing-table a letter addressed in a
round childish hand. It is from Carlotta, who for the last
fortnight has been staying in Cornwall with the McMurrays. I
have known few fortnights so long. In a ridiculous schoolboy
way I have been counting the days to her return--the day after
to-morrow.
The letter begins: "Seer Marcous dear." The spelling is a little
jest between us. The inversion is a quaint invention of her own.
"Mrs. McMurray says, can you spare me for one more week? She
wants to teach me manners. She says I have shocked the top priest
here--oh, you call him a vikker--now I do remember--because I went
out for a walk with a little young pretty priest without a hat,
and because it rained I put on his hat and the vikker met us.
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