Mother saw me off.
She stood at the window and chatted charmingly. I am sure that all the
people in the carriage were enchanted with her personality. Mother is so
fastidiously, almost contemptuously refined and cultured. Had she lived
in the time of the French Revolution she would have been gloatingly
guillotined by the revolutionists for the very way she breathes.
"And you won't forget?" she said lightly.
"I won't forget," I answered.
One of the most disappointing things in life is that you never go back
to a place--even if you have only been away twenty-four hours--feeling
exactly the same as when you left it. You can recover your old poise,
but the going away has altered you, you make a dozen little mental
readjustments on your return--you see things with the aid of the new
experience you have gained during your absence. Life is one continual
process of readjustment with people, places, and things, and ourselves.
We marvel at the chameleon--his feats are nothing to the feats of a
perfectly normal human.