When I came In this evening a letter from you awaited me, and a pleasant thing to see that was, to be sure.  I went out at four thirty and came in just after eleven.  Since then I have been writing three letters to Jack on the new note-paper, proofs thereof, for him to see what It looks like coming out of an envelope in the morning.  Now I have no stamps left, so I’ll have to go walking up to the post office and it is most late. Yet I will go, lest you think me thoughtless, it will be like taking the dog for a last night walk, only there won’t be any good.

                        Yes, Tolstoy was a fine novelist, but his views on art are, I think, pace your Uncle Fred self-conscious and affected. Wagner wrote the music to the ring not because it was a good story, but because it represented the hunger we mortals have for the brave, the gallant, the mysterious, the terrifying, the handsome and the glorious. It was not meant to be a nice little story, and the music is all, the story it tells merely the peg it hangs on.

                        It would be nice to go a-walking on Sunday. I think I’ll go to Bromsgrove, and to football. If I call for Pat I could take you from Football to your home, and be back by nine. I’ll tell you more later. I do not yet know if I am working or not tomorrow night, I will telephone if we can do anything. Don’t despair if we can’t.  Fun later.  For now, my love will have to be understood, like a lot of Latin Past Participles. I must to the post with this and to bed. Work tomorrow. Robin is a dear fellow, very sweet and gentle and friendly. I drank beer with him. A lousy show he had, I thought. So did he.

                                I telephone tomorrow anyhow, circa five thirty.