You, I suppose, sitting among
the dying glories of an American fall, think that this
must needs be depressing. Don't make any mistake about
that, my dear boy. You may take the States, from Detroit
to the Gulf, and you won't find a happier man than this
one. What do you suppose I've got att his{sic-- at this}
moment in my consulting room? A bureau? A bookcase?
No, I know you've guessed my secret already. She is
sitting in my big armchair; and she is the best, the
kindest, the sweetest little woman in England.
Yes, I've been married six months now--the almanack
says months, though I should have thought weeks. I
should, of course, have sent cake and cards, but had an
idea that you were not home from the Islands yet. It is
a good year since I wrote to you; but when you give an
amorphous address of that sort, what can you expect?
I've thought of you, and talked of you often enough.
Well, I daresay, with the acumen of an old married
man, you have guessed who the lady is as well. We surely
know by some nameless instinct more about our futures
than we think we know. I can remember, for example, that
years ago the name of Bradfield used to strike with a
causeless familiarity upon my ear; and since then, as you
know, the course of my life has flowed through it. And
so when I first saw Winnie La Force in the railway
carriage, before I had spoken to her or knew her name, I
felt an inexplicable sympathy for and interest in her.
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