Suppose you didn't glance at a novel by a man called Prowse, A Gift of the Dusk. A simply terrible book—awful—ghastly! and about as good as it could be. It's just a kind of … journal the man kept while he was at a sanatorium in Switzerland. It is the goods if you like! But he must be a wonderful man. I wish I knew if he is dead. Will you Please ask Beresford if you see him (Collins is the publisher)? I wish very much I could hear of him—One's heart goes out to anyone who has faced an experience as he has done. “One must tell everything— everything.” That is more and more real to me each day. It is, after all the onl treasure, the only heirloom we have to leave—our own little grain of truth.