Perhaps I had better go to the sea—like Suzette—and try to break the whole chain and forget her—.
I rang the bell for Burton then, and told him of my new plan, as he put me to bed. We would go off to St. Malo,—for a week, and I gave orders that he should make the necessary arrangements to get permits. To travel anywhere now is no end of a difficulty.
I wrote to Alathea without weakening—I asked her to collect the Mss. and make notes of what she thought still should be altered—during my absence—I wrote as stiffly, and in as business like a manner as possible—and finally I went to sleep, and slept better than I have done for some time.
| · | · | · | · | · |
St. Malo:
How quaint these places are! I am at this deserted corner by the sea—where the hotel is comfortable, and hardly touched by the war—I am not happy—the air is doing me good, that is all—I have brought books—I am not trying to write—I just read and endeavor to sleep—and the hours pass. I tell myself continually that I am no more interested in Alathea—that I am going to get well, and go back to England—that I have emerged, and am a man with a free will once more—and I am a great deal better—.
After all, how absurd to be thinking of a woman, from morning to night!
When I get my new leg, and everything is all healed, up in a year or two, shall I be able to ride again?—Of course I shall, no doubt, and even play a little tennis?—I can shoot anyway—if we will be allowed to preserve partridges and pheasants when the war is over in England.
Yes, of course life is a gorgeous thing—I like the fierce wind to blow in my face—and yesterday, much to Burton's displeasure, I went out sailing—.
How could I be such a fool, he inferred—as to chance a wrench putting me back some months again—But one has to chance things occasionally. I never enjoyed a sail more because of this very knowledge.