Picture us, my dear, afloat in the very oddest ship you can imagine. It›s not the ship, so much as the people. One does come across queer sorts as one travels. I must say I find it hugely amusing. There›s the manager of the line—called Vinrace—a nice big Englishman, doesn›t say much—you know the sort. As for the rest—they might have come trailing out of an old number of Punch. They›re like people playing croquet in the ‹sixties. How long they›ve all been shut up in this ship I don›t know—years and years I should say—but one feels as though one had boarded a little separate world, and they›d never been on shore, or done ordinary things in their lives. It›s what I›ve always said about literary people—they›re far the hardest of any to get on with. The worst of it is, these people—a man and hi
