My Wonderful Visit

I notice a thoughtful-looking, studious sort of man seated across from us. He is reading a book, a different sort of book, if covers mean anything. It looks formidable, a sort of intellectual fodder. I wonder who he is. I weave all sorts of romance about him. I place him in all sorts of intellectual undertakings, though he may be a college professor. I would love to know him. I feel that he is interested in us. I mention it to Knoblock. He keeps looking at us. Knoblock tells me he is Gillette, the safety-razor man. I feel like romancing about him more than ever. I wonder what he is reading? I would love to know him. It is our loss, I believe. And I never learned what the book was that he was reading.

There are very few pretty girls aboard. I never have any luck that way. And it is a weakness of mine. I feel that it would be awfully pleasant to cross the ocean with a number of nice girls who were pretty and who would take me as I am. We listened to the music and retired early, this because of a promise to myself that I would do lots of reading 42aboard. I have a copy of Max Eastman's poems, colours of life, a volume of treasures. I try to read them, but am too nervous. The type passes in parade, but I assimilate nothing, so I prepare to sleep and be in good shape for the morning. But that is also impossible.

I am beyond sleep to-night now. I am in something new, something pregnant with expectation. The immediate future is too alluring for sleep.

How shall I be received in England? What sort of a trip shall I have? Whom shall I meet on board? The thoughts chased one another round my brain and back again, all running into one another in their rambling.

I get up at one o'clock. Decide to read again. This time H. G. Wells's Outline of History. Impossible! It doesn't register. I try to force it by reading aloud. It can't be done. The tongue can't cheat the brain, and right now reading is out of the question.