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The book was one of Letts's diaries, three days in a page, which are in themselves fatal to a finished style of literature. There is always too much to say or too little. One's thoughts never fit the rhomboid apportioned by Mr. Letts for their accommodation.
To others he was held up by what is called a Representative Press as a second Crichton. And all this because he was dead. Such is glory. All unconscious of these honours, honest Jem Agar sat in his little tent, nibbling the end of his penholder the gift, by the way, of his father and wishing that he had bought a Letts's diary with six days in a page instead of three. Well waited is well done.
Moreover, there were other physical things: the lean, shining marble of Miss Letts's long fingers, the dry thinness of her hair, the way that the tip of her nose would be suddenly red, and then, like a blown-out candle, dull white again. Fingers and noses are not the only agents in the human affections, but they have most certainly something to do with them.
Mackie's dye-works, suffering in winter with his chest, letters must be written, columns filled up in the same round, simple hand that wrote in Mr. Letts's diary how the weather was fine, the children demons, and Jacob Flanders unworldly.
Moreover, Miss Letts was too busily engaged with the survey of her relations, with now this gentleman, now that, to pay much attention to Barbara. She dismissed her as "a queer little thing." There were in Miss Letts's world "queer things" and "things not queer." The division was patent to anybody. Barbara's father and mother were also surveyed.
He narrated his experience of the last few days, and, finding the listener sympathetic, talked at some length about himself and his voyages; also of his plans for the future. "I lost my son at sea," said the woman, with a sigh. "You favor him rather." Mr. Letts's face softened. "Sorry," he said. "Sorry you lost him, I mean."
The huge Letts's Diary which I carried home to his daughter is full of notes, and there are no less than a score of sheets within it filled with observations which he took during the last trip he made to Manyuema alone; and in the middle of the book there is sheet after sheet, column after column, carefully written, of figures alone.
We arrived at Ujiji from our tour of discovery, north of the Tanganika, December 13th; and from this date the Doctor commenced writing his letters to his numerous friends, and to copy into his mammoth Letts's Diary, from his field books, the valuable information he had acquired during his years of travel south and west of the Tanganika.
Letts rose sheepishly, and then to his great amazement a pair of strong young arms were flung round his neck, and a pair of warm lips after but slight trouble found his. Then and there Mr. Letts's mind was made up. "Oh, Jack!" said Miss Foster, and began to cry softly. "Oh, Jack!" said Mrs. Green, and, moved by thoughts, perhaps, of what might have been, began to cry too. "There, there!" said Mr.
And yet, if the dark curtains that veiled the nursery windows at night, if the glimmering shape of the picture-frames, if the square black sides of the dolls' house were real, real also was the figure of her Friend, real his arousal in her of all the memories of the old days before she was Barbara Flint at all real, too, his love, his care, his protection; as real, yes, as Miss Letts's bony figure.
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