_The worst has happened. I knew it would. I’m off my feed. As gentle a brace of kidneys as ever you saw. . . . I give you my word, I had to cover them up—they stared so reproachfully. Well, it’s my own fault. I walked slap into the cage—Athalia showed me round it: together we looked at the bars. And now I can’t get out. I tell you I’ve got it bad. I’ve got to the mathematical stage—adding up how many hours before I see her again, subtracting so many for sleep and glaring at the balance as if it were a bad debt. Did you ever do that, Judy? And all the time I’m racking my rotten brain. . . . I’m sure it’s Beringhampton. I’m positive. He knew her before, of course: but he never sat up and took notice until a month ago. And now—well, Mary’s lamb isn’t in it. He’s always around somewhere—always. I happen to know he loathes racing, but the two days she was at Newmarket there he was. I must admit he’s good-looking—I think he’s the best-looking man I ever saw. But he’s a queer-tempered cove. And I’m sorry if he’s the man—as he surely is. You see, Judy, no one else fits. If you asked me to find a fellow who needed a lead, who didn’t know his own mind, who’ld keep on staring at a strawberry and thinking what a whopper it was without it entering his head that he might as well pick it—I should shout ‘Beringhampton.’ Everyone would. Oh, of course it’s him. ‘The man I love.’ Aren’t women funny? Of course I may be wrong. There’s plenty of other lads all over Athalia; but they’re not hard up for ideas. They don’t need any pushing: most’ld look a bit better with four-wheel brakes. Again, it may be someone who hasn’t stripped: but, if it is, they’re lying devilish low. I tell you I’ve racked my brain. . . . But whoever it is has done me in all right—mucking about like this. Damn it, they must love her, unless they’ve got tea in their veins. You’ve only got to see her for that. Then what’s their mouth for? And while they’re boggling, I’m being broken up. . . . And there you are. If somebody said, ‘All right: they shall speak to-night,’ I’ld knock his face through his head. I love my tenterhooks. You know—the ‘sweet sorrow’ stunt. I tell you, Judy, I’m on the edge of poetry. I want the business finished and I don’t want it finished. I don’t know what I want. Yes, I do._ I want Athalia. _I want her as I never wanted anything before. I thought I wanted her six weeks ago. ‘Want’? I didn’t know what the word meant. I’m absolutely mad about her, Judy. I don’t let her see it, you know, but when she appears I have to hold on to something or I’ld be jumping up and down. Her eyes, her hair, her blessed mouth—why, her little mouth’ld make most women, wouldn’t it? You do like her, don’t you? Of course I know you do, but just say so in your next letter.