‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. Of course, he had no idea who I was. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. Good-bye aunt. For what could be more ironical than for Howard Spurlock to see himself grow famous under the name of Taber? The ambrosia of which he had so happily dreamt!—and this gall and wormwood! He stood up and rapped his pipe on the rail. He waved to her. The settlement was on the middle west coast. To the Seven Cities of Refuge Jack proceeded. There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter. One never knew when it would be necessary to resume her disguise. .
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