At last the writing table is in perfect order and I have put a notice round the neck of the small angelic creature who is “knock man” to my door: “Engaged.” At last I'm free to sit down and think of last Sunday and wish it were this. This is cold, reluctant, uneasy. Now and again a handful of rain is dashed against the window. The church bells have stopped ringing and I know that there is a leg of something with “nice” spring greens, rhubarb tart and custard in every house in Hampstead but mine. It's very cold, very grey; the smoke spins out of the chimney. But thank God there is a far-away piano, rocking, plunging, broken into long quivering phrases— it sounds as though it were being played under the sea.

How glad I am—how deeply glad—that we stopped the car on the other side of the tunnel and got out and leaned against the wall—with one broken village behind and then the falling terraces of green. Will you ever forget how those mountains were heaped and folded together F And the fat comfortable man taking a cigarette at his ease in the lap of the world and the small impudent children watching us while we enjoyed our timeless moment? I shall go on reliving that day down to the very last drop. But so I shall with all the time we spent together.

I have been thinking about your new work. Have you done any more? It's very good. Delicate perception is not enough; one must find the exact way in which to convey the delicate perception. One must inhabit the other mind and know more of the other mind and your secret knowledge is the light in which all is steeped. I think you have done this. Do more.

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M. is desperately pessimistic about—everything—more especially—he feels that the wicked writers are triumphing to such an extent that it's nearly impossible ever to beat them. Things have gone too far. I don't feel that at all. I think our duty lies in ignoring them—all except those whose faults are important—and in working ourselves, with all our might and main. It is waste of time to discuss them—and waste of energy. It's a kind of treachery to all that we intend to do. I am sure the ‘day will come.’

It is joy to have one's room again. Everything is in its place. The black and gold scarf lies across a little couch,.

Good-bye, this is not the letter I wanted to write— it's only the fringe of it.