Harp's Manor

INSTALLMENT VI

April 14, 1928

On Monday, we all congregated in the ballroom to take pictures.

I hadn't even been aware such a room existed until a servant delivered the letter to me. "My word, I must get out more," I breathed as I read it over. I suppose I am not the best correspondent, or spy, as Miss Burgess would say, for you readers. I hardly ever leave my room, and instead occupy my time with realities outside of our own. It is a wonder anything interesting ever reaches these pages.

Now that Mrs. Maxwell had arrived, it seemed, we were finally scheduled to take photographs for the news, in accordance with the delayed article about Mr. Harp's experiment. Hopefully, the more prominent article about us will reach more people than my meager reports, and will garner this serial more readers. So far, the doings of nineteen celebrities has somehow escaped the eyes of the general public. Perhaps my thoughts are just not interesting to read?

I met up with Mr. Forrest and Miss Pearce before this date. Miss Pearce was ecstatic over the final product of the glove-box, and wondered aloud how best we showcase it to the others. It was a simple little thing enough, with a single Celtic knot in the middle. Mr. Forrest suggested displaying it somewhere; I argued that it was merely a glove-box. They pointedly ignored me and set off to find the most open space in the mansion, where everyone would be certain to see it during their daily routine.

I half-heartedly followed them, only to see what mischief they would get up to. My surveillance, however, was cut short when a voice hailed me in from the music room. I entered and found Gerald Hobbes behind the piano, plinking out notes undecidedly. "What is it, Mr. Hobbes?"

I realize that Mr. Hobbes has made very little appearance in these volumes so far. At least I may say I have written all that I know about him. We have met at dinner, and discussed trivial matters; but beyond that, I do not know what he is like.

"Which one sounds better? This-" he played a jovial chord- "or this-" a slightly darker chord.

"Well, it depends on what you want it to sound like, I suppose," I said. "The first one sounded much happier."

"I'm not trying to write something happy," he said. "Or sad, if that's what you want to call it. This piece is supposed to invoke nostalgia. I can't figure out which chord is better suited for the purpose."

"Which kind of nostalgia are you referencing?" I asked. "There's two types, really. The one is about wishing you could go back in the past of your own life; the other is wishing you could live in a different time, as far as I'm concerned."

"I'm not dissecting the word, I'm writing to create it."

"If so, nostalgia to me has always been something sad," I observed.

"It is not sadness, like I said. It is observance of the days past. It is a longing for what can never be. It is the ultimate sacrifice of time!"

"Sounds sad to me."

"Never mind; I'll figure it out on my own. I didn't think anyone else would understand."

I paused on my way out the door. "I hope I haven't upset you?"

"Nothing of the sort. Now I would appreciate it if you left me in solitude to work."

I left with the impression that I very much had upset him, or at least his lofty superiority complex.

During my short dialogue with our irritable friend, Mr. Forrest and Miss Pearce had discovered a location for the glove-box. I found them ten feet above me, placing it on the railing of one of the foyer's balconies. "It should really have some sort of pedestal," Miss Pearce was saying.