Mr. Renour and I are so friendly.  He is not with us now because he had to go to Monte Carlo, so he does not yet know I am going to America.  He still thinks I am not married—­and do you know, Mamma, I believe he is falling in love with me—­and I feel rather mean—­but I expect we shan’t see him before we start, so it will not so much matter.  This morning quantities of flowers came up to my room with his card, and just written underneath, “got to meet a man at Monte Carlo, shan’t be gone long.”  I am leaving him a note thanking him and saying we are off to his country.  I have signed it, “Elizabeth Valmond” of course, so that may illuminate him—­but I still feel rather mean.

We are only to be away two months and I think the change will do me good, and I know you will take every care of Hurstbridge and Ermyntrude.  I hate not having time to run over to see you and them, but Octavia says it can’t possibly be done, and I am not to be silly; that two months is nothing, and I shall be back again at the original time you were to bring them to England—­so I suppose she is right.  I shall send Harry a cable to meet him at Zanzibar.  He can’t stop me then because we shall be on the sea, and if he is furious I shall be doubly pleased.

Aunt Maria and Uncle John have been so kind, but I can see are relieved Octavia is going to take me.  They have grown more sentimental.  At each place we come to they recollect some tender passage of their former trip.  It seems Aunt Maria’s hysterics ended at Folkstone.  Octavia says she means really to see America and not only go to the houses of the smart people one knows when they are in England, because she is sure there are lots of other kinds quite as interesting and more original.  We are to stay in New York and then go West.  I shall not have a moment to write until I am on the ship, and trust I shall not be seasick.

Fondest love to my two angels and yourself,

Your affectionate daughter,
    Elizabeth.

LUSITANIA

LUSITANIA. Fourth day out.

Dearest Mamma,—­It is perfectly delightful being at sea—­in this ship—­because you don’t really know you are on the hateful element.  We have a charming suite with two real windows and beds, and even Agnes has not grumbled.  There are lots of American on board, and really these travelling ones are quite as bad as the awful English people one meets on the Continent, only instead of having stick out teeth and elephants’ feet, their general shapes are odd.  It appears as if in the beginning Peter, or someone, called up to the Creator that so many thousands of arms and legs and bodies and heads were wanted to make this new nation, and so the requisite amount were pitched down and then joined up without anyone’s worrying to get them en suite.  Thus A seems to have received B’s head with C’s arms, his own body and D’s legs—­and so on; not the least