an idea of my state of mind during those last dreadful weeks in London.
My nerves are now in a little better condition. Since I came here, I've
set myself resolutely NOT to think of Will--that is, not more than I
can help; there are times when his ghost is extremely active. I'm
putting out brain-feelers, for I know that I should go to pieces
altogether if I didn't throw myself into some new interest. So that I'm
trying a system for the development of one's higher faculties that was
taught me by a queer old German professor I met at Caux last summer,
who was interested in the odd little second-sight experiences I've had
occasionally which I told him about. He made me do exercises in
deep-breathing and meditation--you shut yourself up, darken your room
and concentrate upon a subject--Beauty, Wisdom, Friendship, were some
of the subjects he gave me--and you can't think how thrillingly
absorbing it was. I worked frightfully hard at it for a bit, drinking
only distilled water and living on vegetables--you CAN do that in
Switzerland: you simply CAN'T in civilised society--And then came Rome
and the Willoughby Maule episode.

Episode! Has it come to that!

Ah Joan, I have a horrible suspicion that however much I may try to
persuade myself I'm concentrating upon some abstract theme, I've really
all the time been thinking of him.

Yesterday I took Friendship for my study in concentration. You, dear
thing, came up, naturally, and your image actually kept Will away for a
clear five seconds. I thought what a help it would be to be with you,
and afterwards I made the suggestion of an Australian trip on literary
business to Aunt Eliza, but it was no good. She is deeply engaged just
now in driving batches of stuffy relatives in a stuffy brougham--