It was a joy to hear from you and you are too generous in your criticism of my work for the paper. Nevertheless, it's immensely stimulating to know that I gave you pleasure—I often say things expressly for you both. I am sure you know I do. This week I had happened to read a really typical article in an imbecile ‘woman's paper’ and I threw my three silly novels away and wrote about it instead. I am afraid the greater number of readers will think I have gone mad. But Oh, they are such dull dogs sometimes and I am ill—I must be gay—my heart and my cough, my dear woman, won't let me walk up and down stairs, even, at present. I am afraid I cannot come to you. You know how much I would like to. And I'm not sure when I can get away to France; I'm not ‘up’ to the journey—as they say, at present. It is very cursed; I try not to mind; I mind terribly.

But forgive me. You have a right to be disgusted with me for being ill—I know—if I ever am well and strong again I'll try and make up for this unsatisfactory K. M.