He even balanced the cellar-book, which had been
his father's pride, and which he had piously attended



WHEN THE TIDE TURNS 109

to ever since his seventeenth birthday, writing on a
large slip of paper inside the cover —

" Note : Willis & Co. to send to recork the Ma-
deira, bin 17, sometime this month. R. S."

as though he had been the elderly, methodical father
of a family instead of an infatuated poet of two-
and-twenty.
He sat with knitted brows for a moment looking
at the slip after he had written it, as though he were
trying to understand what it was about. Then he
took a sheet of notepaper, and in his delicate but
mature hand wrote without any pause or hesita-
tion —

"Deabest Auntie, — I shall have started be-
fore you are awake, because I couldn't bear to say
good-bye. I have left everything quite straight, I
think, and when I want any more of my things Andy
can send them to me if you aren't at home. I shall
go to Dublin first, and shall probably stay at Rim-
mon's or the Shelbourne ; but in any case letters and
things can be sent to Mr. McCann, as, even if I go
anywhere at short notice, I will keep him posted
with my address, and you must do the same. Cousin
Helen will be with you a few hours after you get
this, and then you won't feel lonely. Of course I
will write from Dublin, and wherever I am.
