s and tradition, I don't know much what I do
believe. I'd rather believe in God because everything seems to fly to
pieces in an uncomfortable way if one doesn't. But is that any belief?
As to "faith," that sounds rather nonsense to me. What on earth is
faith if it isn't shutting your eyes and playing you believe what you
really don't believe? Likely I'm an idiot--I suspect that--but I'd
gladly have it proved. And here I am away off from the point and
arguing about huge things that I can't even see across, much less
handle. I beg your pardon; I beg your pardon for all the time I'm
taking and the bother I'm making. Still, I'm going on living till I
get your next letter--I promise, as you ask. I'm glad to promise
because of the first letter, and of the glimpse down a vista, and the
breath of strange, fresh air it seemed to bring. I have an idea that I
stumbled on rather a wonderful person that day I missed the rector. Or
is it possibly just the real belief in a wonderful thing that shines
through you? But then, you're clever besides; I'm clever enough to
know that. Only, don't digress so; don't write a lot of lovely English
about clocks and getting up early. That's not to the point. That
irritates me. I suppose it's because you see things covered with
sunlight and wonder, and you just have to tell about it as you go
along. All right, if you must. But if you digress too much, I'll go
and shoot, and that will finish the correspondence.

Indeed I know that this is a most extraordinary and unconventional
letter to send a man whom I have seen once. But you are not human to
me; you are a spirit of the thunder-storm of August first. I cannot
even remember how you look. Your voice--I'd recognize that. It has a
quality of--what is it? Atmosphere, vibration, purity, roundness--no,
I can't get it. You see I may be unconventional, I may be impertinent,
I may be personal, because I am not a person, only
Yours gratefully,
AUGUST FIRST.

FOREST GATE, August 10th.

MY DEAR MR. MCBIRNEY--

This is just a word to tell you that you must answer rather quickly, or
I might not keep my promise. Last night I was frightened; I had a
hideous evening. Alec was here--the man I'm to marry if nothing saves
me--and it was bad. He won't release me, and I won't break my word
unless he does. And after he was gone I went through a queer time; I
think a novel would call it an obsession. Almost without my will,
almost