S.S. Niagara (At Sea). August 6th

Dear Bathgate,

How is it with Benedict, the married man? I was extremely sorry to be away for the wedding, and thought of you both on my mountain fastness in New Zealand. What a perfect place that would have been for a honeymoon. A primitive but friendly back-country pub, a lovely lake, tall mountains and nothing else for fifty miles. But I suppose you and your Angela were fashionably on the Riviera or somewhere. You’re a lucky young devil, and I wish you both all the happiness in the world, and send you my blessing. I’m glad my offering met with Mrs Angela’s approval.

We get to Vancouver in no time now, and leave the same day on the C.P.R. Most of the passengers are going on. I am breaking my journey at Quebec, a place I have always wanted to see. That will still give me fifteen days in England before I climb back into the saddle. My mother expects me to spend a fortnight with her, and if I may, I’ll come on to you about the 21st?

The passengers on this ship are much like all passengers on all ships. Sea voyages seem to act as rather searching re-agents on character. The essential components appear in alarming isolation. There is the usual ship’s belle, this time a perfectly terrific American cinema lady who throws me into a fever of diffidence and alarm, but who exhibits the closeup type of loveliness to the nth degree of unreality. There is the usual sprinkling of pleasant globetrotters, bounders, and avid women. The most interesting person is Miss Agatha Troy, the painter. Do you remember her one-man show? She has done a miraculous painting of the wharf at Suva. I long to ask what the price will be, but am prevented by the circumstances of her not liking me very much. She bridles like a hedgehog (yes, they do) whenever I approach her, and as I don’t believe I suffer from any of those things in the strip advertisements, I’m rather at a loss to know why. Natural antipathy, perhaps. I don’t share it. Oddly enough, she suddenly asked me in a very gruff stand-offish voice if she might paint my head. I’ve never been took a likeness of before—it’s a rum sensation when they get to the eyes; such a searching impersonal sort of glare they give you. She even comes close sometimes and peers into the pupils. Rather humiliating, it is. I try to return a stare every bit as impersonal, and find it tricky. The painting seems to me to be quite brilliant, but alarming.

Fox has written regularly. He seems to have done damn well over that arson case. I rather dread getting back into the groove, but suppose it won’t be so bad when it comes. Hope I don’t have to start off with anything big—if Mrs Angela thinks of putting rat’s-bane in your Ovaltine, ask her to do it out of my division.

I look forward to seeing you both, my dear Bathgate, and send you my salutations the most distinguished.

Yours ever,

Roderick Alleyn