Sorry I was so untiggerish and dull a dog yesterday and Tuesday, I expect it was perplexity over this play. While it was still on the stocks I have been pondering/ worrying, fussing, thinking, probing, criticising and that must make one get doodah, but it is weak minded, selfish and unmannerly and I apologise. But although I gave but little evidence of it, your company was a profound consolation in my greyness. Anyhow, no more worrying over that play, right or wrong it goes tomorrow, I’ve read it right through today, and although it may not be what Jack likes nor what the B.B.C. likes, it is what I like, and I see it as an honest job. It is quiet, of course, and not too dramatic. But if I tried to make it world-shattering and profound profound it would mis-fire. One’s only strnegth is to know one’s own limitations. The read-through was satisfactory, and although there are a million and seven other ways of doing it, this one is, I stoutly declare, as good as any of them. So there. This will clear my head of nonsense.

                        I have also written to the Editor of the Post, a forlorn chance, for Editors are far more exclusive and withdrawn than any Monarch, Its easier to get the Duke of Kent to come and mow the lawn for you than it is to get an Editor to see you for five minutes in his office. They keep us poor scribblers at bay, damn them. Still, no harm in trying.

                        Saturday, then, at 12.15 at your office, and cricket, and may the sun shine, and a picnic supper and the theatre or a walk or a ride or something. Its the Winters Tale, a good show.

                        We can’t leave your Mother at home next Wednesday, we must have her looked after. I thought your Aunt and Mark would still be there to teep her company when I made the suggestion. But it would have been nice. We’ll have to think it over.

                        Aren’t you terrifying consistent and single minded, and hearted, I’m frightened for you, knowing me so well. But there is every chanced of a mended me, you know, you might do it.

                        Eileen hasn’t come tonight after all, but I had the wire too late to get on to you. So I stopped at home and finished the play off, and now I am going to visit the Brookes for supper and spend a few hours thinking of the novel. That’s what I must do, of course.

                        I am sorry for my assininity, my dear,  and you mustn’t bother about me. Its just silly childishness, and preoccupation with whatever job I have in mind.

                        Fare thee very well, and what ho for Saturday