“Oh, David!” said Evangeline in despair, “don’t go on saying there’s no difficulty in anything. I daresay there isn’t if you can do the things, but just think of it! He went away in the blackest huff you ever saw, and all about nothing, so there is, in a way, nothing to begin on. I can’t say, ‘Are you still angry?’ because he must be, or he would have written. I can’t say, ‘I am not angry any more,’ because I wasn’t. I was depressed and frightened to death.”
David sat with his hands in his pockets, slowly swinging his legs and gazing at the floor, wrapped in thought. “I don’t think I should think at all,” he advised. “I should just take a pen and write.”
“Would you take a J pen or a quill pen?” Evangeline inquired, while she tossed the volume of “Alice” backwards and forwards.
“Either,” he replied. “There’s no difficulty in that.” She all but threw the book at his head, but refrained. “No difficulty at all,” he repeated, with his eye on the book.
“Can I say you thought he could get a job in England?” she said.
“Yes, if you like.”
“But do you think I had better?”
“I shouldn’t begin with it,” said David.
“But you think I might put it in at the end?”
“I should see how the letter looks when it is done. If it seems to fit, put that in.”