I love Cheneston. I write it honestly. It is almost the only thing in my life I am proud of. Sometimes I feel that my love is compounded of blue sky and sunshine, and everything that is big and honest and glittering in nature.
He does not care one little scrap for me.
He loves Grace Gilpin.
I want them to be happy together, but I do not wish to sit in the front pew at their wedding, or watch them fashion life together afterwards—I want to run right away then, to the utter-most corner of the earth.
I don't believe the world is round; I believe that somewhere there are little corners for lovers who are not loved, and there neither moonshine, nor sunshine, nor star shine shall worry them, neither the scent of flowers nor the dear, shrill, heart-plucking songs of birds; there shall be no memory of the quivering, glowing beauty and wonder of life, which is not for them, but there shall be work—useful, honest work—in which to find forgetfulness and fresh courage.
I am hunting for a corner to run away to when my time comes.
VI
No one has heard from Walter Markham.
He has no relations here, it is true—but it's funny he hasn't written.
He is in Mesopotamia; perhaps the mails have been sunk or he has dysentery or something.