irritates me. I suppose it's because you see things covered with
sunlight and wonder, and you just have to tell about it as you go
along. All right, if you must. But if you digress too much, I'll go
and shoot, and that will finish the correspondence.

Indeed I know that this is a most extraordinary and unconventional
letter to send a man whom I have seen once. But you are not human to
me; you are a spirit of the thunder-storm of August first. I cannot
even remember how you look. Your voice--I'd recognize that. It has a
quality of--what is it? Atmosphere, vibration, purity, roundness--no,
I can't get it. You see I may be unconventional, I may be impertinent,
I may be personal, because I am not a person, only
Yours gratefully,
AUGUST FIRST.


FOREST GATE, August 10th.

MY DEAR MR. MCBIRNEY--

This is just a word to tell you that you must answer rather quickly, or
I might not keep my promise. Last night I was frightened; I had a
hideous evening. Alec was here--the man I'm to marry if nothing saves
me--and it was bad. He won't release me, and I won't break my word
unless he does. And after he was gone I went through a queer time; I
think a novel would call it an obsession. Almost without my will,
almost as if I were another person, I tried to get the pistol. And
your letter guarded it. My first personality _couldn't_ lift your
letter off to get the pistol. Did you hypnotize me? It's like the
queer things one reads in psychological books. I _couldn't_ get past