ges,
with purplish-brown moss covering their roofs--rather picturesque; and
some of the slate-roofed, stone houses are nice in their way, too; I
suppose distinctively Cornish. Not that I care! I'm glad Graylees Castle
isn't in Cornwall, which is _much_ too far from town.

There were some mine-shafts about, to mar the scenery, toward the end of
the journey, and the road surface was bad compared to what we've had. If
the car weren't a very good one, we should have suffered from the bumps.
Ellaline Lethbridge, by the way, said something about Cornwall which
puzzled me. Suddenly she exclaimed: "Why, the atmosphere here is like
Spain! Everything swims in a sea of coloured lights!" _I_ thought she'd
spent all her life at school in France, and I mentioned the impression,
upon which she replied, with an air of being taken aback: "I mean, from
what I have _heard_ of Spain." Can she have had an escapade, I wonder?
But that is Dick's business, not mine--at present.

There's a castle in Launceston, which has kept us over to-day, as Sir
Lionel has been in these parts before, and can't rest unless we see
everything he admired in his youth. I wish he hadn't seen so much,
there'd be less for us to do. I _hate_ pottering about, seeing sights in
the rain, and it has been trying to rain all day. It's well enough to
say that the rain rains alike on the just and the unjust, but that is
not true, as some women's hair curls naturally. Ellaline's does, and
mine doesn't--except the part I owe for at Truefitt's.

It's an old hotel that we're in, quite pleased to show its age; and I
have made rather a beast of myself with some sort of Cornish pasty,
which, it seems, is a local favourite, and spoils the peasants' teeth.
Cornish cream is good, and, I understand from Sir Lionel, was invented
by the Phoenicians. I suppose they drowned their sorrows in it while
working in the tin mines one always associates with them.

We go to Tintagel to-morrow, and do some other Cornish things, I don't
know what. But write to me at Bideford, as we shall be back in
Devonshire in a few days on our way--I fancy--toward Wales. I long to
hear what you or Lady Mac may have up your sleeves about the dear
Ellaline's papa.

Ever your affectionate

Gwen.

Dick sends his love, and will write.

XVIII

MRS. SENTER TO HER SISTER, MRS. BURDEN

_King Arthur's Castle, Tintagel_,
_Aug. 12th_

My Dear Sis: I'm sorry I told you to write to Bideford, as
we're st