ed indifference. He sent me back my letters as
I had asked him to do--wrote me in quite the right strain--said he was
not worthy of me--that I'd shewn him I was far above him--that he might
not presume to think I could be happy with a man of his inadequate
means and position--that he could never forget me--and so on--but that
it was best as it is.

And now I've got to get what consolation I can out of my own inner
conviction--that it IS best as it is, and that I ought to be thankful
for being still Bridget O'Hara, mistress of my own fate, and free yet
to sport about--sport!--oh, the irony of it--in what you call the
stormy sea of my emotions.

I make over to you the copyright of my sufferings.'

The letter broke off abruptly. It was resumed on another sheet six
weeks later at Gaverick Castle.

'Rosamond Tallant has just sent me a writing case I left at their house
with these pages in it. I daren't read them over, but they'll give you
an idea of my state of mind during those last dreadful weeks in London.
My nerves are now in a little better condition. Since I came here, I've
set myself resolutely NOT to think of Will--that is, not more than I
can help; there are times when his ghost is extremely active. I'm
putting out brain-feelers, for I know that I should go to pieces
altogether if I didn't throw myself into some new interest. So that I'm
trying a system for the development of one's higher faculties that was
taught me by a queer old German professor I met at Caux last summer,
who was interested in the odd little second-sight experiences I've had
occasionally which I told him about. He made me do exercises in
deep-breathing and meditation--you shut yourself up, darken your room
and concentrate upon a subject--Beauty, Wisdom, Friendship, were some
of the subjects he gave me--and you can't think how thrillingly
absorbing it was. I worked frightfully hard at it for a bit, drinking
only distilled water and living on vegetables--you CAN do that in
Switzerland: you simply CAN'T in civilised society--And then came Rome
and the Willoughby Maule episode.

Episode! Has it come to that!

Ah Joan, I have a horrible suspicion that however much I may try to
persuade myself I'm concentrating upon some abstract theme, I've really
all the time been thinking of him.

Yesterday I took Friendship for my study in concentration. You, dear
thing, came up, naturally, and your image actually kept Will away for a
clear five seconds. I