I don't always feel I have offended you. I only felt it once when the pause was so very long. But now it is hard to write to you when I know you are laughing at my poor little ‘y's’ and ‘g's’ and ‘d's.’ They feel so awkward; they refuse to skip any more. The little ‘g’ especially is shy, with his tail in his mouth like an embarrassed whiting

I am very very sorry you are ill. I hope you will soon be better. I shall send you a little packet of tea on Monday. Please have a special little pot made and drink it with un peu de citron—if you like citron. It tastes so good when one is in bed—this tea, I mean. It always makes me feel even a little bit drunk—well, perhaps drunk is not quite the word. But the idea, even, of the short story after a cup or two seems almost too good to be true, and I pledge it in a third cup as one pledges one's love…

I have decided to stay in London for three months. Then I go to Italy to the Lago di Garda. Perhaps we shall meet before then. I have taken a minute flat at this address and by the end of next week I shall be working again. I have a book to finish and I want to write a play page 241 this autumn… It's very nice to be in London again, rather like coming back to one's dear wife. But I wish the intelligentsia were not quite so solemn, quite so determined to sustain a serious conversation only. They make one feel like that poor foreigner arraigned before Mr. Podsnap on the hearthrug in Our Mutual Friend. I shall never, while Life lasts, be able to take Life for granted in the superb way they do.

Are you able to work? I am glad Middleton Murry's short notice pleased you. I hope the Evening News man ¹ has done you proud, too. And some one wrote to me and wondered if you would come to lunch one Sunday. But who am I to say?