It is my little moment of happiness, the glorious "to-day" that is sandwiched in between the exhausting "yesterday" of Los Angeles and the portentous "to-morrow" of Europe.

For the moment I am content.

III.
DAYS ON SHIPBOARD

I notice a thoughtful-looking, studious sort of man seated across from us. He is reading a book, a different sort of book, if covers mean anything. It looks formidable, a sort of intellectual fodder. I wonder who he is. I weave all sorts of romance about him. I place him in all sorts of intellectual undertakings, though he may be a college professor. I would love to know him. I feel that he is interested in us. I mention it to Knoblock. He keeps looking at us. Knoblock tells me he is Gillette, the safety-razor man. I feel like romancing about him more than ever. I wonder what he is reading? I would love to know him. It is our loss, I believe. And I never learned what the book was that he was reading.

There are very few pretty girls aboard. I never have any luck that way. And it is a weakness of mine. I feel that it would be awfully pleasant to cross the ocean with a number of nice girls who were pretty and who would take me as I am. We listened to the music and retired early, this because of a promise to myself that I would do lots of reading aboard. I have a copy of Max Eastman's poems, colours of life, a volume of treasures. I try to read them, but am too nervous. The type passes in parade, but I assimilate nothing, so I prepare to sleep and be in good shape for the morning. But that is also impossible.

I am beyond sleep to-night now. I am in something new, something pregnant with expectation. The immediate future is too alluring for sleep.

How shall I be received in England? What sort of a trip shall I have? Whom shall I meet on board? The thoughts chased one another round my brain and back again, all running into one another in their rambling.

I get up at one o'clock. Decide to read again. This time H. G. Wells's Outline of History. Impossible! It doesn't register. I try to force it by reading aloud. It can't be done. The tongue can't cheat the brain, and right now reading is out of the question.

I get up and go to see if Knoblock is in. He sleeps audibly and convincingly. He is not making his debut.

I go back to my room. I rather feel sorry for myself. If only the Turkish baths were open I could while a few hours of time away until morning. Thus I mediate. The last thing I remember it is four o'clock in the morning and the next thing eleven-thirty. I can hear a great bit of excitement going on outside my cabin door. There are a lot of little children there with autograph books. I tell them that I will sign them later and have them leave the books with my secretary, Tom Harrington.