The Agony Column

We are young but once, I told him. After that, what use to signal to

Romance? The lady at least, I said, will understand. He sneered at that.

He shook his silly gray head. I will admit he had me worried. But now

you have justified my faith in you. Thank you a million times for that!

Three weeks I have been in this huge, ungainly, indifferent city,

longing for the States. Three weeks the Agony Column has been my sole

diversion. And then--through the doorway of the Carlton restaurant--you

came-It is of myself that I must write, I know. I will not, then, tell you

what is in my mind--the picture of you I carry. It would mean little

to you. Many Texan gallants, no doubt, have told you the same while the

moon was bright above you and the breeze was softly whispering through

the branches of--the branches of the--of the-Confound it, I don't know! I have never been in Texas. It is a vice in

me I hope soon to correct. All day I intended to look up Texas in the

encyclopedia. But all day I have dwelt in the clouds. And there are no

reference books in the clouds.

Now I am down to earth in my quiet study. Pens, ink and paper are before

me. I must prove myself a person worth knowing.

From his rooms, they say, you can tell much about a man. But,

alas! these peaceful rooms in Adelphi Terrace--I shall not tell the

number--were sublet furnished. So if you could see me now you would be

judging me by the possessions left behind by one Anthony Bartholomew.

There is much dust on them. Judge neither Anthony nor me by that.

Judge rather Walters, the caretaker, who lives in the basement with his

gray-haired wife. Walters was a gardener once, and his whole life is

wrapped up in the courtyard on which my balcony looks down. There he

spends his time, while up above the dust gathers in the corners-Does this picture distress you, my lady? You should see the courtyard!

You would not blame Walters then. It is a sample of Paradise left at

our door--that courtyard. As English as a hedge, as neat, as beautiful.

London is a roar somewhere beyond; between our court and the great city

is a magic gate, forever closed. It was the court that led me to take

these rooms.

And, since you are one who loves mystery, I am going to relate to you

the odd chain of circumstances that brought me here.

For the first link in that chain we must go back to Interlaken. Have

you been there yet? A quiet little town, lying beautiful between two

shimmering lakes, with the great Jungfrau itself for scenery. From the

dining-room of one lucky hotel you may look up at dinner and watch the

old-rose afterglow light the snow-capped mountain. You would not say

then of strawberries: "I hate them." Or of anything else in all the

world.