uselessly seeking its
fellow.

* * * * *

_From the Princess di San Zenone, Coombe-Bysset, Luton, Bedfordshire, to
the Lady Gwendolin Chichester, British Embassy, St. Petersburg._

But, surely, if he loved me, he would be as perfectly happy with me
alone as I am with him alone. I want no other companion, no other
interest, no other thought.

* * * * *

_From the Lady Gwendolen Chichester, British Embassy, St. Petersburg, to
the Princess di San Zenone, Coombe-Bysset, Luton, Bedfordshire._

Of course you do not, because you are a woman. San Zenone is your god,
your idol, your ideal, your universe. But _you_ are only one out of the
many women who have pleased him, and attached to the pleasure you afford
him is the very uncomfortable conviction that he will never be able to
get away from you. My dear child, I have no patience with any woman when
she says, "He does not love me." If he does not, it is probably the
woman's fault. Probably she has worried him. Love dies directly it is
worried, quite naturally. Poor Gladys! You were always such a good
child; you were always devoted to your old women, and your queer little
orphans, and your pet cripples, and your East End missions. It certainly
is hard that you should have fallen into the hands of a soulless
Italian, who reads naughty novels all day long and sighs for the
flesh-pots of Egypt! But, my child, in reason's name, what did you
expect? Did you think that all in a moment he would sigh to hear Canon
Farrar or Dean Liddell, take his guitar to a concert in Seven Dials, and
teach Italian to Bethnal Green babies? Be reasonable, and let your poor
caged bird fly out of Coombe-Bysset, which will certainly be your worst
enemy if you shut him up in it much longer.

* * * * *

_From the Prince di San Zenone, Coombe-Bysset, to the Duchessa
dell'Aquila Fulva, Palazzo Fulva, Milano._

I am still in my box of wet moss. I have been in it two weeks, four
days, and eleven hours, by the calendar and the clocks. I have read all
my novels. I have spelled through my "Figaro," from the title to the
printer's address, every morning. I have smoked twenty cigarettes every
twenty minutes, and I have yawned as many times. This is Paradise, I
know it; I tell myself so; but, still,--I cannot help it,--I yawn. There
is a pale, watery sun, which shines fitfully. There is a quantity of
soaked hay, whi