but for the last half-hour I have
listened,--indeed we have no choice but to listen, the voices are so
strident,--and it can't be that, because it isn't brilliant or even
amusing, unless to call men names like Pyjamas, or Fatty, or Tubby,
and slap them playfully at intervals is amusing. A few minutes ago
Mrs. Crawley came to sit with us looking so fresh in a white linen
dress. I don't know why it is--she wears the simplest clothes, and yet
she manages to make all the other women look dowdy. She has the gift,
too, of knowing the right thing to wear on every occasion. At Port
Said, for instance, the costumes were varied. The Candle flopped on
shore in a trailing white lace dress and an enormous hat; some broiled
in serge coats and skirts; Mrs. Crawley in a soft green muslin and
rose-wreathed hat was a cool and dainty vision. Well, to return. As
Mrs. Crawley shook up her chintz cushions, she looked across at the
Candle--a long look that took in the elaborate golden hair, the much
too smart blouse, the abbreviated skirt showing the high-heeled
slippers, the crowd of callow youths--and then, smiling slightly
to herself, settled down in her chair. I grew hot all over for the
Candle. I don't suppose I need trouble myself. I expect she is used to
having women look at her like that, and doesn't mind. Does she really
like silly boys so much and other women so little, I wonder! There is
generally something rather nasty about a woman who declares she can't
get on with other women and whom other women don't like. Men have an
absurd notion that we can't admire another woman or admit her good
points. It isn't so. We admire a pretty woman just as much as you do.
The only difference is you men think that if a woman has a lovely
face it follows, as the night the day, that she must have a lovely
disposition. We know better that's all.

The poor Candle! I feel so mean and guilty writing about her under her
very eyes, so to speak. She looked at me just now quite kindly. I have
a good mind to tear this up, but after all what does it matter? My
silly little observations won't make any impression on your masculine
mind. Only don't say "Spiteful little cat," because I don't mean to
be, really.

This is much the longest letter I ever wrote. You will have to read a
page at a time and then take a long breath and try again.

Mr. Brand has just come up to ask us why a sculptor dies a horrible
death? Do you know?

_S.S. Scotia, Nov. 6_.

No