I am very sorry you are not coming to the Party. I wanted everybody to be there and you to be there. I wanted the small private satisfaction of looking at the party with you. However, it can't be helped. If you do come to tea on Monday you will be very welcome. I am thankful people are buying a copy or two of Prelude. I hate to think of it loading up your ship. I don't see how your press can be other than a Prodigious success. It must be very nice, cruising about among the islands and deciding to put in—now here—now there—and seeing what the natives have to bring aboard. (Alas, my dear woman, I have no poem. I am not a poet.)

God be thanked for this divine weather! The vicar called upon me yesterday and asked if he might come occasionally and administer a little Private Communion to me at any time … just a drain of wine, I suppose, and a crumb of bread. Why a little? It puzzled me greatly. And I told him that while this weather continued I was nothing but a living Hymn of Praise, an incense, a harp responding. Which is more or less true. Addio.

Tchekhov has a very interesting letter published in next week's A…. What the writer does is not so much to solve the question but to put the question. There must be the question put. That seems to me a very nice dividing line between the true and the false writer.