LETTERS FROM ABROAD
mellowed light of the morning sun from behind the fleecy clouds is greeting me like the smile of a child whose eyes are still heavy with sleep. It is nearly seven o’clock and every one of our party, including Pearson, is fast asleep within shut doors and behind drawn blinds. Today is our last day in London and I am not sorry to leave it, I wish it were the day for sailing home, but that day looks hazily indistinct in the distance and my heart aches.
I am sure you have heard from Pearson all about the performance of my plays and my lecture about the Bauls. I am a bad historian. I cannot remember facts, even the most recent, and most important. For this reason, as a letter writer, I am a failure as in many other vocations of life. Fortunately I can talk upon nothing when I wish, and this saves me, in my correspondence, from utter disaster.
LONDON, August 4, 1920.
Owing to change of plans and other reasons we are still detained in London. We hope to leave it the day after tomorrow. Now that the people believe that we are away and also your weather has ceased to persecute us, these last two days have been very restful for me. I wonder if you know at the last moment we decided not to begin our tour for Norway though our tickets were bought. I
