ve? I suppose so. I
suppose at one time or another most of them have thought they loved
some one. I will not be uncharitable, for they are receiving their
just punishment. Lovers are never sea-sick, but now a hoarse
chorus, indescribable and hideous, rises from hidden recesses of
the ship. They are not in love, they are sea-sick. May it do them
all possible good!

"Here we are at last. I hasten to finish this rambling letter that
it may catch the steamer, which, I am told, leaves to-day. Nine
days we have been at sea, and the general impression seems to be
that the last part of the passage has been rough. And now I shall
be some weeks in Europe--I cannot tell how long, but I think the
least possible will be three weeks, and the longest six. I shall
know, however, in a fortnight. My beloved, it hurts me to stop
writing--unreasonable animal that I am, for a letter must be
finished in order to be posted. I pray you, sweetheart, write me a
word of comfort and strength in my journeying. Anything sent to
Baring's will reach me; you cannot know what a line from you would
be to me, how I would treasure it as the most sacred of things and
the most precious, until we meet. And so, a bientot, for we must
never say 'goodbye,' even in jest. I feel as though I were
launching this letter at a venture, as sailors throw a bottle
overboard when they fear they are lost. I have not yet tested the
post-office, and I feel a kind of uncertainty as to whether this
will reach you.

"But they are clamouring at my door, and I must go. Once more, my
own queen, I love you, ever and only and always. May all peace and
rest be with you, and may Heaven keep you from all harm!"

This letter was not signed, for what signature could it possibly need?
Margaret read it, and read it again, wondering--for she had never had
such a letter in her life. The men who had made love to her had never
been privileged to speak plainly, for she would have none of them, and
so they had been obliged to confine themselves to such cunning use of
permissible words and phrases as they could command, together with
copious quotations from more or less erotic poets. Moreover, Claudius
had never been in a position to speak his heart's fill to her until that
last day, when words had played so small a part.

It was a love-letter, at least in part