morning. So you are back in London--sloppy,
muggy, February London! How you will miss the cold clear North and
all the ice-fun; but you will be so busy finishing the book that
surroundings won't matter much. It seemed quite home-like to see the
familiar address on the note-paper.

To-day I am going to devote entirely to writing. Surely my book will
make some progress now. How many words should there be in a book? I've
got 18,000 now; "ragged incompetent words" they are, too. I wonder
what makes a writer of books! Would knowing all the words in the
dictionary help me? My statements are so bald, somehow. It doesn't
seem an interesting tale to me, so I'm afraid I can't expect an
unprejudiced reader to find it thrilling. The Mutiny is perhaps too
large a subject for me--though, mind you, there is one bit that sounds
rather well. I have taken great pains with it, and, as Viola said of
her declaration, "'tis poetical!" The worst of it is, when I write
poetically I am never quite sure that I am writing sense. I dare say
I would be wise to take the Moorwife's advice. You remember in _The
Will-o'-the Wisps are in Town_, when the man had listened to the
Moorwife's tale he said, "I might write a book about that, a novel in
twelve volumes, or better, a popular play."

"Or better still," said the Moorwife, "you might let it alone,"

"Ah," said the man, "that would be pleasanter and easier."

How true!

_Baratah, Thursday, Feb. 28_.

We are still in Baratah, as you see, and shall be till Tuesday. It
is a very nice life this nomadic existence, and one gets nearer the
people. They come in little groups and talk to Boggley outside his
tent, and I must say he is most patient with them and tries to do
his very best for each one of them. They make my heart ache, these
natives, they are so gentle and so desperately poor. Isn't it Steevens
who says the Indian ryot has been starving for thirty centuries and
sees no reason why he should be filled?

The Listers are home now and we have been seeing a lot of them.
They are delightful people. Mrs. Lister is quite a girl, and so
good-looking and cheery. She has the prettiest house I think I ever
saw. When we went to call the first time and were shown into the
white-panelled drawing-room with its great open blue-tiled fireplace
and cupboards of blue china, I suppose it was the contrast with our
own rather sordid surroundings, but it seemed to me like fairyland.
The hall is lovely, with a