How he longed to sit down and write to his
darling. Write and tell how he hated it all, and was only getting
through the time until he saw her six feet of buxom charms again--only
Paul did not put it like that--indeed, he never thought about her
charms at all--or want of them. He analysed nothing. He was sound
asleep, you see, to _nuances_ as yet; he was just a splendid
English young animal of the best class.
He had promised not to write to Isabella--or, if he _must_, at
least not to write a love-letter.
"Dear boy," the Lady Henrietta had said when giving him her fond
parting kiss, "if you are very unhappy and feel you greatly wish to
write to Miss Waring, I suppose you must do so, but let your letter be
about the scenery and the impressions of travel, in no way to be
interpreted into a declaration of affection or a promise of future
union--I have your word, Paul, for that?"
And Paul had given his word.
"All right, mother--I promise--for three months."
And now on this wet evening the "must" had come, so he pulled out some
hotel paper and began.
"MY DEAR ISABELLA:
"I say--you know--I hate beginning like this--I have arrived at this
beastly place, and I am awfully unhappy. I think it would have been
better if I had brought Pike with me, only those rotten laws about
getting the little chap back to England would have been hard.
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