el and marooned by
the Tyndals was the most amusing experience in the world, and I simply
delighted in it. "Of course, somebody or other will count noses and miss
me after a while. Then they'll have to come back and fetch me, I
suppose."

"You could go on to Bideford by rail, if you liked," the landlady
informed me gratuitously. "There is a train early this afternoon,
and----"

"Oh, I think I'd better wait here," I said. "If they came back and found
me gone, it would be too complicated."

She agreed; but she little guessed how much more complicated it would be
to take a train for anywhere without any pennies. If I had money, I
would go to _you_, and not to Bideford. At least, that is the way I feel
now; but I suppose I wouldn't, for my obligations to Ellaline haven't
snapped with the strain of the situation, although just at this moment
they don't seem to matter. It's only deep down in my heart that I know
they do matter.

There is my scrape, dearest of women, and mamma whom I would select if I
were able to choose among all eligible mothers since Eve, up to date.
The situation hasn't changed in the least, to the time of writing,
except that it has lasted longer, and got frayed round the edges.

I was paid for, including food and lodging, until after breakfast. It is
now half-past five o'clock P.M., pouring with rain, howling
with wind, and not only has nobody come back to collect me, but nobody
has telephoned or telegraphed. I have eaten, or pretended to eat, a
luncheon, for which I have no money to pay. I refused tea, but was so
kindly urged that I had to reconsider; and the buttered toast of
servitude is at this moment sticking in my throat, lodged on the sharp
edge of an unuttered sob. Your poor, forlorn little daughter! What is to
become of her? Will she have to go to the place of unclaimed parcels? Or
will she be sold as bankrupt stock? Or will she become a kitchen-maid or
"tweeny" in King Arthur's Castle? But don't worry, darling. I won't be
such a beast as to post this letter till something is settled, somehow,
even if I have to rob the hotel till.

There is nothing to do except write, for I can't compose my mind to
read; so I will continue recording my emotions, as French criminals do
when condemned to death, or lovesick ladies when they have swallowed
slow poison.

5.50.--Rain worse. Wind yelling imprecations. I sit in the hall, as I
can't call my room my own. New people are arriving. They look Cook-ey