I had nothing
else to send.«
    At this point Sylvia had carefully obliterated two lines, blackening the
page into unsightliness. In vain Sidwell pored over the effaced passage, led to
do so by a fancy that she could discern a capital P, which looked like the first
letter of a name. The writer continued:
    »Don't trouble yourself so much about insoluble questions. Try to be more
positive - I don't say become a Positivist. Keep a receptive mind, and wait for
time to shape your views of things. I see that London has agitated and confused
you; you have lost your bearings amid the maze of contradictory finger-posts. If
you were here I could soothe you with Sylvian (much the same as sylvan)
philosophy, but I can't write.«
    Here the letter was to have ended, for on the line beneath was legible »Give
my love to Fanny,« but this again had been crossed out, and there followed a
long paragraph:
    »I have been reading a book about ants. Perhaps you know all the wonderful
things about them, but I had neglected that branch of natural history. Their
doings are astonishingly like those of an animal called man, and it seems to me
that I have discovered one point of resemblance which perhaps has never been
noted. Are you aware that at an early stage of their existence ants have wings?
They fly - how shall I express it? - only for the brief time of their courtship
and marriage, and when these important affairs are satisfactorily done with
their wings wither away, and thenceforth they have to content themselves with
running about on the earth. Now isn't this a remarkable parallel to one stage of
human life? Do not men and women also soar and flutter - at a certain time? And
don't their wings manifestly drop off as soon as the end of that skyward
movement has been achieved? If the gods had made me poetical, I would sonnetise
on this idea. Do you know any poet with a fondness for the ant-philosophy? If
so, offer him this suggestion with liberty to make any use of it he likes.
    But the fact of the matter is that some human beings are never winged at
all. I am decidedly coming to the conclusion that I am one of those. Think of me
henceforth as an apteryx - you have a dictionary at hand? Like the tailless fox,
I might naturally maintain that my state is the more gracious, but honestly I am
not assured of that. It may be (I half believe it is