A happy New Year !  And Many Returns of the Day.  Your long letter was very welcome & I tried to answer it properly yesterday but we went to the theatre so my time was eaten up.

Cheer up, & enjoy your work.  Great quantities of money !  How is it to be won !  Mainly luck I think, certainly not excellence of work only.  I’d like to win it as well, & I intend to do so.  But the manner of it is not easy to understand.  I’m sorry your mother is still below par.  My good wishes to her for the New Year.

I went to the 20’s art exhibition in Burlington Gardens today.  Some good stuff mostly very self conscious though, but its brave, like all youth which is worthwhile.  Some of the young artists themselves were there, & they were a far funnier exhibition.  Green Plus Fours & Posh stockings par exemple !!!

I’m going to Godalming on Saturday & to B’ham on Monday or not.  Probably Tuesday.  In that case if I am then should we forgather ?  At my place ?

Yes, STRENGTH of MIND is a great virtue, but the very devil !  Oh dear.

The dog demands that we go to the post at once, & he is a most insistent animal. So I must away.  Au revoir.  And a Happy New Year again.

Oh, I lunched with an old friend, Susan, & dined with a family, the Bashfords.  She is getting married at Easter !  All my friends are.  I wish I could.  I remain lonely by day & solitary at night and the years peel off my score.  Sad, very sad.  Its foolish to be unmarried.  But foolish to be married on no money.  But – a Happy New Year.

My fluid arrangements are becoming slightly crystalised. I’m going to Godalming, in Surrey, to the Unwins, on Thursday or Friday & to B’ham on Monday next to collect Nunk. If I take him home & go on to Cambridge or stay at Erdington I don’t yet know. I’ll let you know when I can see so far ahead.

                        I’m having a very pleasant time. Pottering about the West End, snooping about in Uncle’s very snoopy Riley, & generally holiday-making. This afternoon I prowled round the Caledonian Market, & nearly bought all sorts of strange things.

                        How of yourself ? Back at work I suppose. Is your Mother back now, & quite cured ? Do say so, for her sake & for yours. Running a Pension & a full-time job at the same time is no easy task. Especially with such strange occasional lodgers !!

                        The post goes in five minutes, so this must be the proofs of notes. There’s no news anyhow.

                        If I don’t have time tomorrow to write, a Very Happy New Year for 1937. May everything be grand & your problems fall before a sweet philosophy. I’ll wish you a Happy New Year more distinctly when I come home.

Well, how are you after the  of Christmas ? No aches or pains I do hope. I’m very sorry I didn’t write for Christmas, but Thursday was one mad rush, with not one free 5 minutes. Anyhow we saw each other on Wednesday, and I WAS NOT TIGHT !!!

                        I am coming back for one day on Thursday or Friday & then shall go to Godalming, Cambridge or Yorkshire. As yet I’m undecided, I’ll let you know.

                        What did Father Christmas bring you ? He did me proud. Evening Dress scarf from the  , gloves from Mother (& a dressing gown) pyjama case, diary & oddments. No ties, no books, no cigar, D. G. !!

                        I’m dining chez Bashfords tonight, & driving down to Kettering on Sunday. Tuesday I’m going to Caledonian Market, nosing round the book stalls. That’s always fun.

                        I’ve a smashing idea for a Broadcast play, & no typewriter !! I’m pining for it already, after one & a half days.

                        Fare well & keep well. I’ll be seeing you very soon. Meanwhile think of me some times and all the very best for 1937.

Your letter sat beside my two cold sausages when I came home, weary and hungry, from the Fantasticks show last night, and it was very welcome, I purposely refrained from answering it then, as letter writing after midnight is always dangerous, especially when you have such exciting half suggestions to make !  I said to myself, “Steady, my lad, don’t rush about, read Hakluyt peacefully and go to bed. Write tomorrow.” I did and I am because it is.

                        Yes, we were very peaceful and content, sitting by the fireside,   and as you say, that is a good sign. It was a very charming evening altogether. And I love hanging curtains and making ommelettes so don’t feel that your hospitality was amiss, it was very pleasant to be informal and slightly domestic. One gets tired of bleak bachelordom.

                        And you are alone this week-end !  It is absurd not to do something about it, but what ?  I have written home saying that I might not be coming for the week-end, so that there will be time to consider what can be done.  If it was not for fetching Nunk I would not go at all, but he must be fetched.  If I do stay I shall have to go home on Wednesday, or Monday. No I have Orchestra on Tuesday evening and Fantasticks on Monday. So that means Wednesday. I could do it, though.

                        Work also enters into it, I may have to work until Saturday evening, but, not, I think after that. Its difficult to make hard and fast arrangements. Of  course, I’d like  to  see you on one of the Week-end days, Sunday probably, very much indeed, especially as we should have a house  to  ourselves  for so many hours. But this is just dithering and getting no-where. I will  see how things  pan out and if  I can put off going home until Wednesday I will write  to  you  tomorrow (or  tonight) and  tell you what we are  doing. If  I can I will come on Sunday, for Lunch, and stay as long as  you will have me, having a  taxi if  the last bus  or  train has gone. If I find that this is honestly impracticable, then I’ll come on Wednesday evening, as   early as you can be home, and we’ll make that a late session. So one of the evenings is all right. That’s definite. Whether it can be Sunday or not I will let you know in time for you to confirm it with me.

                        Now, about this other question. Blast Suburbia ! If we want a week-end, damn them all, its no-one’s business, and what is immorality ? I never know. Or rather, I think I do. The living together of two people who really do not like each other is immoral. The invasion of a third person into   the otherwise happy lives of two is immoral. But when two people feel that way, and   they have no-one to hurt, then how is that Immoral ?  Physical attraction should be either strictly controlled and not evidenced at  all or else it should be allowed to follow its natural course. Repression is far more unhealthy than not.

                        It certainly would be grand to have plenty of time, no clock to watch, and the whole night to sit up and watch the fire in.  And I would bring you tea, tea in bed, and. . and. . and. . , which you offered.
But then, you are right, the neighbours might be observant, and what should we do then ?  They might see me arrive, suitcase in hand, and then see me depart, suitcase in hand on the next morning and that would be that, and even if we had been most austere and proper, the damage would be done. I don’t know.  But we’ll leave that out of the question. If I do come we can see about that later.

                        Perhaps you could put me up on the Wednesday night, which is quite definitely free and devoted to you. With two men in the house no neighbours could say a word, and we needn’t go to bed until the bikes have gone and you could let the neighbours and your Mother know all about it.     My landlady is going away at eight o’clock on Christmas eve, in the morning, and it would suit her much better if I slept elsewhere. But that we can discuss.

                        Anyhow, I will see if I can come on Sunday and if I do I will let you know very soon, in time for you to confirm it. If that is impractical,   (and it would mean a bit of  a scramble next week if I had to go home on the Wednesday) then expect me on the Wednesday, to  stay as  long as  you will  have me. If you could put me up I’d be seriously grateful, and a shake down on the sofa in the Drawing room would do.

                        D’you know that you have a remarkably attractive profile when you sit by the fire ?   Amazingly nice, were I gifted as you are I would record it for the world to delight in.

                        I am busy with the play at the moment.  I’ve cut it and reformed it, and am now puzzling over a snappy title for it.  Owen Reed is sending it to Gielgud in London with a strong recommendation for them to do it on the National, which means a write-up in the Times if they do. Things are moving gradually.

                        You are discreet over the stories. I hope one at least of the six will give you some pleasure, though they can’t all, as they are a mixed bag,   all  different styles.

                        No more now, and I’ll either see you on Sunday afternoon, and evening, or afternoon, evening and night or on Wednesday evening, or Wednesday evening and night. If I can sandwich in an hour some other time I’ll let you know. Perhaps tea on Saturday in Town ?

                        If I don’t go home this week-end, could we have Saturday evening and Sunday evening ?   Or would that make the risk of Neighbour’s   talk too obvious and great ?

                        Well, we can’t arrange thus. I’ll find out what is best and let you know. Something shall happen, and we will enjoy ourselves, at the beginning of Christmas!

                        Oh, it was wise and sweet of you to be so philosophical about last night. I was glad I went to the Show, they do much better when I am there and it was for the Unemployed. Went like a rocket, slick and smooth and not one hitch. Most enthusiastic audience. They even lugged me onto   the stage afterwards and people applauded and I blushed and made a little speech and we were all delighted and that was that.

                        Lots of love, and I’ll send a short business like note about the organisation very soon.

DECEMBER 11th. 1936

My Dear,
All is very well, my diplomacy has been capped with success, and I have the evening to myself, to yourself. I shall arrive as soon as I can get away from football, and if all goes well and there are no accidents to see to or parents to have news broken to, and no broken bones, I shall cut away in good time, and arrive well by six o’clock. It might be half past five. I have until ten to ten, as I shall catch a Midland Red which swoops up past your road and turns right at Mosley Village. It leaves Town at 10 and will come by the village at 10.11, I mustn’t miss it, but we shall have longer than on any Thursday here, as it will be from half past five until ten.

I hope your lodgers are out, it will be cosier with no-one at home. Have a cheerful fire and a cheerful wireless and a cheerful settee, and a cheerful countenance.

I’ll bring you those stories you didn’t take before if you like, and Bobby’s new poem, Psyche. He’s sent me a grand Prologue for Lambert Simnel. The B.B.C. wired me to telephone them yesterday and want me to go round this afternoon, I don’t know why. I’ll take the prologue.

The work is going well. Oh, it looks as though next Wednesday evening will be free. What Ho. Any use to you ?

Au revoire, I’ll be there in very good time. If the worst should happen it would be six fifteen, at the best it will be soon after five.

Warrah-warrah . . .

This is a stupendous week ! I’m very sorry to hear about your mother’s rundownness, & very glad she is wise enough to follow the doctor’s advice. May the care at Romsey work wonders. I expect it will. Meanwhile what about you ? Don’t go and kill yourself. I’d better come along every morning & get the lodgers breakfast for them, & yours as well. How are you going to manage work at the office & work at home ? Sounds impracticable to me. If it’s really not possible for you to get round tomorrow, say so; I’ll not be pleased, far from it. But I’ll understand. Telegraph before lunchtime if you can’t manage it. If all is well our meet you at Smiths at 6.35-45-55. I’ll be outside at about a quarter to seven. We’ll go up to Erdington together. I’m coming down to have tea with Jack as I can’t go on Tuesday. So if all is well, you’ll see me there at 6.45. Don’t worry if you can’t be there before 7. I’ll wait quite patiently. If it’s snowing or pelting with rain I’ll go into Pattisons as on other occasions. There’s a Lord Dunsany play on Monday to listen to. Sounds promising. Also some passable music & the news will be exciting I expect. Old Edward is in a pickle. I don’t know what to think, we only have half facts, of course. On the surface it looks as though he had moral justice on his side.

                        The enclosed letter came back to me. It was written on Wednesday. Sorry I addressed it wrongly, must have been drowsy !

                        Your comments on my cottage suggestion are most droll !! Me as Satan ! Well.

                        But no more now, see you tomorrow. Tell your mother I wish her a speedy recovery and a good rest. I’ll see you don’t overwork.

305 ORPHANAGE ROAD ERDINGTON BIRMINGHAM

 3rd.  December 1936

Dear Betty,

Poor dear, what a Hell of a Day ! No trip to London, your Mother unwell and not even the consolation of our evening here.    Never mind, take consolation from the fact that by the Law of Averages,   there must be a whale of a good time coming to compensate.

I’m very  sorry, about your Mother, I do  hope  the  scare proves to be not  so bad as  it seems. Make her take care of herself, but Mothers are cruel drivers of themselves, mine is as well.  I do hope some better news comes when you write again.

Of course the Fantasticks must amuse themselves on Monday. I will send them full details of what they have to do and some new numbers to make them happy. That always cheers them up. Then they can lump it. I nearly risked my living by being awkward about this evening or tomorrow with the Dairy, which is Eileen, but thought better of it.  But I am not going to let any blasted Fantasticks interfere, so there !  Book Monday whatever you do and come and listen to the wireless. Something good will be on. I’ll come to your place soon, but it is sort of more secluded here when we have so brief a time.

I have evolved a Good Idea, I will borrow Eileen’s car one evening, she is always  asking me to test it out for her, and I’ve  travelled miles  taking her places  in my car  in the past, and we’ll go to the cottage and you  can tell your Mother that you will be home Very Late, as you will, and you can get away early and we’ll meet in Town and drive like hell to the country and stay there for six or seven hours on end. I’ll play the gramophone  and we’ll  cook a real supper and walk my fields and look at the trees, to which I shall introduce you, and I’ll arrange a moon. This won’t be Monday, but as soon as I can manage it. Doesn’t that sound more cheerful ?

And don’t weep, Verboten, definitely. Makes your eyes red, anyhow, and that’s   illegal.

And you won’t be “dragging me out” on Monday, as you say, because I’ll fly,   I’d have to be fragged, no drugged, there. I can’t refuse my bread and butter work but all else can go to the blue skies and stay there. I don’t live in London so why practise being separated by a hundred miles when its only ten between us.

Another idea.  You go to Romsey for Christmas, I to Southgate. Couldn’t we meet in London on Boxing or the next day for lunch and a walk in the park and perhaps a mild show.  Or dinner perhaps ?     Think it over and bring  some constructive plans with you on Monday.

I’m in the office all day today, proof reading and flying about, and I’m doing this in a nice conventional “dinner hour”. I came up in Eileen’s car, she likes me to use it, says it does it good !

And the King isn’t half getting in a mix up with his Mrs. Simpson. He’ll have to look out, you can’t choose a wife against the ancient British Government, Parliament and the Law. Shades of Cromwell are stirring again !

I must away to Town for the office, it’s after two. Cheer up, and what Ho for Monday. Say its all right, its the only evening next week. All others will be Dairyfarmery,   afternoons and some mornings as well.

Oh, a point, I’m not “crazy about” Jack !!!  I like the man, tease him and consider his friendship worth more than that of anyone in trousers I’ve ever met.  But we are fiercely diffident and friendly in the most critical manner. I’m glad he talked to you like a father,   and especially glad that he warned you about leading me astray ! He’s concerned I think. You won’t, will you, because I’m easily led and you know the reputation your sex has got for misleading us poor innocent males. He told me not to lead you astray so the old boy seems to be very upset and frightened. He can have his revolution all to himself but damn it we’ll have our thrills as well.  Our does less harm to people than, his hobby.

Cheer up, my hearty, and write gayer.  I shall return here on Saturday morning as I am staying at the Erskines tonight and tomorrow. I’m taking the fiddle so that I can play with Mrs. E, who is musical. There’s a hell of a lot of work to be done as well, so we’ll  have  to  swat  all  day and most of  the night, and we’ll probably quarrel  like blazes at the end, we  always  do.

And now, farewell, and buck up. Write swiftly saying you are bucked up.     And remember Monday. Fantasticks are old enough to rehearse themselves. I’ve even put   the orchestra off on Tuesday to have Monday free,

At this moment, two thirty, Phil and Christopher are being married at Dunstable Priory, and that ends that fifteen year old story ! 

It was as I feared, your letter full of exciting promise for Thursday, arrived this morning, while my doleful one was delivered to you !  But we must look upon it as a very mild penance, this postponement of our evening, and enjoy Monday all the more.  I hope you are not wrathful.  Stay longer in Town and do something, so that you will not return to an empty Birmingham.

                        Don’t worry about my migraine too much. Pessimism is not the right word, by the way,   its more like a period of self doubting.  I am working out a philosophy,  I suppose, and trying to find a pattern for life.  I fancy that it is something like this.  When one tries to  live by one of the arts  one starts  off on the  journey full of  energy, hope,  self  confidance  and a whole pack of you  traverse many miles  together.  First the real shams drop out with sore feet or because they see inviting rest houses and inns on the route.   That gets rid of half the band.   Then the remainder go on, and soon they stop singing and shouting and realise that the journey is long, perilous and uphill.  The plod more, and  gradually as  the miles  pass  by and hill-top after hill-top  is  reached,  showing only more weary miles ahead each time  instead of  the Promised land,  one by one and two by two others  fall out.  They rest by the road side and find that they loose the power of continuing. Or they decide to join another caravan,   and start all over again,   or they join the unambitious people who live happily in the simple way in the country alongside.   Thus the band dwindles and dwindles.  There comes a time when only a handful are left, and of these those who fall out are bitter because they have come so far and failed.  But if only you can hold on at  this  stage,  when only the real grim ones  remain,  then it is a matter of plodding and trudging along until  suddenly,   unexpectedly,  the road becomes  easy,  and  a new  energy comes,  (brought by  small or large success  and one morning you top a hill,  which you have long since schooled yourself  to be nothing but one of many,  and there  is  the Promised land.

                        This parable is clumsy, but it is, I feel true. Its a matter of “hanging on”, and sticking it.  I must stick to it now for a while, and then it will become easier. Its by the others falling out that the remainder succeed.

                        There is another idea of life; that it is enough and satisfactory to your soul to   live a useful, independent life, happily.  To win your food, shelter, clothes and a place among your equals should be achievment enough.

                        The two should be joined together. The poet starving in a garret is a failure,   not a romantic true picture. The artist should live cleanly and sufficiently, or else he is a trouble to his friends and a responsibility to the community.  If he can’t do that then he is wrong somewhere, in these days, anyhow.  Shakespeare saw that and bought house property and invested in theatre ventures and built up a solid backing of credit and wealth, so that he could hold his head high among his friends and be responsible or dependent on no one.  His   art did not suffer !

                        And so, Betty, my migraine & doubting & puzzlement will result in a clean and clear cut understanding and a pattern of life will evolve.  A rhythm of living is what I need.  You wonder if you hinder  !!! Mon Dieu, NO, your cheerful loyalty is all that is left of a vast pack of friends from whom Time, Circumstances and the changes of the years have   separated me.  And you belong to the Now, not to the past, which is Grand.  So don’t fear that you complicate matters.  For all I know you might have been in sent by a sympathetic destiny to make everything simple again.

                       And look here, this is important.  Don’t you get the pip !!   Your natural cheerfulness and gaity is a tremendous stand-by, and without it it would be hellish. Don’t worry about me, anyhow, and your own worries must be settled by the company, Us. For your grievances are all to be removed.

(1)        The headache . . . . . That has passed I hope, and you must sleep o’nights.

(2)        The Boss’s temper will move.  He’s been over-eating.

 (3)       Jack’s wife is getting better and will do so, and I know all about that.

(4)        The Crystal Palace.  Grand, an Act of Providence, a abortion removed.

(5)        Me. . . . don’t fret on my score.

How much patience have you ?  I am about to test it to the utmost, for the worst has happened. Thursday is Off, and Wednesday and Friday.  Its damnable, but inevitable.  I’ll explain.

                        Before Christmas  a Dairy-Farmer has to be written, and  I can’t afford to  refuse a seventeen pound  job of work in my perilous financial state !  Today I went to the office to consult with Eileen how it shall be done. We studied the calender and saw that decks must be cleared for action. It is work which can only be done away from the office, where thought, cigarettes and bursts of alternating argument and coordinated activity can be indulged in without let or hindrance. So we have discovered that we must start full steam ahead. Tomorrow she comes here at half past five  and we plan  it out.  On Thursday I go to her home at four o’clock, and we work that evening, I stay the night, we work all day Friday and Friday night, I stay Friday night,  and we return to Birmingham on Saturday morning,  me to here she to the office. Its bloody, because I have mornings free, and in hours plenty of  time. But it is evening, or rather, peace and quietness  work. I hate it, but as it is it must be.
Now,  what are your reactioons ?  Pretty fierce towards me I fear; but your sense of justice will pity me rather than blame me. I am very fed up, because I was looking forward to a peaceful companionable evening by the fire, with Halle music in the background. But we must enjoy an evening next week more. Next week will be pretty full as  well, of course, but I am willing to let the Fantasticks get on without me on Monday evening if that  is any use to you. It means waiting until Monday because I must go home this week-end, I’ve missed three running and its a bit mean on my Mama, and there are no possible Sunday trains. I will find out if I can possibly get one Sunday morning,  and if I can perhaps we can frolic on Saturday,  It could start earler, that would be nicer. But, if you won’t scorn me for good, would you sympathise with absent me this week, and keep an evening next week ? It’s a shame when you are coming back from London specially early and if you only knew how I’d be looking forward to your arrival. But one must live, and if I were a sea-cook it would be far worse, wouldn’t it  ?
Being cooped up with poor forlorn Eileen every evening is far from a joke, my nerves get all up on end, and I grow to hate her furry voice, but she can’t help it, and if the work is to be done, well, I must lump it and remember that there is good companionship and comfort ahead, if it is postponed to Monday or Thursday.
Of course, our plans always go awry and if they do and I have a free evening, I’ll write at once hoping you too are free.  Tomorrow might be free, but I doubt it. I’ve forgotten the name and the phone number of your firm, would you remind me of it, so that I can telephone you if a chance does occur.  It might, though the chance is but slender.
So, Betty mio, be charitable, forgive my damnable unreliability, and remember that “This hurts me more than it hurts you”.
Will you escort me to your opus in the Society of Artists exhibition next week ?  I’d like to see it.  Perhaps I’ll go alone first, which would you rather?
Probably a letter will come from you tomorrow, full of agreement for Thursday !  I’ll squirm as I read it if that is my fate.
‘Til Monday then, unless the Fates are kind and I can find an evening suitable also unto you.  Meanwhile, my love and sympathise with my lot.  I wish you were free in the mornings too, though it would be a dud time for the amenities of the fireside  !

 The six thirty bus leaves half an hour before the seven o’clock, which is a splendid thought, or if you are unfed on the train, there would be time to eat first. Again one might eat here. I can see no reason why unkind fate should make me do something else on Thursday, I have every evening free for U.F. to interfere. I shall struggle against any possible intrusion into my programme. If everything is kind, and if you are kind and the train driver is kind, we shall hear the Halle orchestra then on Thursday and Yoiks for that.

                        A shrewd and a cutting blow, that remark of yours in this letter….”But you are always so busy”. As a matter of fact I was so lazy yesterday, too lazy to write even to you, too damnably lazy to be sane. I spent the morning reading the Sunday Times and Hakluyt and cleaning my shoes and filling my pipe and yawning and, like Alice, Sitting like anything. After lunch I snoozed and then went up to the nice kindly restful Brookes and had tea, played pingppong violently with Arnold and his Oliver and Colin, had supper and sat again until I cycled home and to bed. A fruitless day, but as I had had three shows last week and two evenings of rehearsal I was a spent torch. I am now recuperated and have been battling all day over a story and now, just as it is working itself out, I have to go to have tea with Frank Sadgrove and on to a Fantasticks rehearsal. More rows, with the comedian this time, but only a spot of temperament of his. I think all will end well. I am disatisfied with myself these days, you may be able topull me round. I cannot get going, on anything. Life seems chaotic and purposeless and I am adrift. I can’t get a clean wind, either to tack against with my teeth set or to sail with with taut sheets. Its strange. Hence my diffidence and restraint generally. It will work out. A findamental change is indicated. This type writer will type i’s for o’s and u’s. Its a strange one.

                        Dear dear, Thursday is Christopher and Phyl’s wedding day !!! I am sensible about this business now, and see that it is inevitable, fate, Life, for the Best, suitable, natural, proper, sensible, wise, apt, just, fitting, significant, and altogether comma il faut. At the same time…. there is a damnable feeling of being left out of it, and a sort of mild spiritual flatulence. I have blessed them both, wished them well, sent them my greetings and told them that I’m very pleased. And yet…. heigh ho, the wind, and the rain.

                        Don’t say Tomorrow and tomorrow like that, It may sound exciting and fertile to you, but it reminds me at once of Macbeth’s dreadul dispairing lament,

…..Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
Towards the last syllible of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way
To dusty death. . . . . .
Life’s but a poor player who frets and struts his time upon our stage,
A tale told by and idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying. . . . Nothing. !

C’est le migraine, et ca passe, n’import.

                        Who is La Fabiola by, and where is the picture ? Would you find out from me at the School ? I ought to know, its my greatest treasure that picture, and I am ignorant. I believe it is Spanish.

                        Mon Dieu, its inexpressibly comforting to have so warm and loyal and abundant a friend as you. Only all the while I feel guilty, honestly, not, modestly and coyly speaking. God in Heaven, as I am now, purposeless, drifting with no bite to the sails, I am a sorry barque, whilst you need a cutter, clean and trim, with a fresh wind on the quarter, lilting and sparkling along, hard over, halyards singing, foam curling away from deep bows. Perhaps I am wrong, and yet were I a rat I would think about packing up my suitcase and giving a week’s notice. Ought not I to say, Betty, you swift keen person, look elsewhwre, to fresher fields and more promising, more definite vistas.” I won’t say it, I’m far too questioning of everything at the moment.

                        Fear not, suddenly I shall get the wind I am waiting for, and then all will be enthusiasm and brightness again and zest and eagerness. Bobby, bless the man, has sent me a poem as a present, an exquisite thing, called Winter Aconites. Look them up before Thursday and we’ll read the poem. Its delicate and gossamer lovely. He is a grand friend, and is not loyalty the greatest of virtues ? Remember Rupert Brooke….

So for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,
And the high cause of love’s magnificence,
And to keep loyalties young, I’ll write those
names Golden for ever, eagles crying flames,…. ?