I had meanwhile decided, first, to write another and a better book than The Apostates or Afield had ever pretended to be; and afterward to marry Rosalind Jemmett, whom I found, in my too-hackneyed but habitual phrase, "adorable." For this Rosalind was an eminently "sensible match," and as such, I considered, quite appropriate for a Townsend.
The main thing though, to me, was to write the book of which I had already the central idea,--very vague, as yet, but of an unquestionable magnificence. Development of it, on an at all commensurate scale, necessitated many inconveniences, and among them, the finding of someone who would assist me in imbuing the love-scenes--of which there must unfortunately be a great many--with reality; and for the tale's milieu I again pitched upon the Green Chalybeate,--where, as you may remember, I first met with Stella.
So I said a not unpromising farewell to Rosalind Jemmett, who was going into Canada for the summer. She was quite frankly grieved by the absolute necessity of my taking a rigorous course of the Chalybeate waters, but agreed with me that one's health is not to be trifled with. And of course she would write if I really wanted her to, though she couldn't imagine why--But I explained why, with not a little detail. And she told me, truthfully, that I was talking like an idiot; and was not, I thought, irrevocably disgusted by my idiocy. So that, all in all, I was not discontented when I left her.
Then I ordered Byam to pack and, by various unveracious representations, induced my Uncle George Bulmer--as a sort of visible and outward sign that I forgave him for declining to lend me another penny--to accompany me to the Green Chalybeate. Besides, I was fond of the old scoundrel....
