What has happened to the inkstand with the elephants on it—mother-of-pearl, inlay—or was it ivory? Some of the inlay had begun to come off; I fancy one of the elephants had lost an eye.

And that dim little picture of a snowy landscape hanging on the wall in your room. Where is it now? And where are the kittens and the children and Christ, who looked awfully like a kitten, too, who used to hang in the dining room? And that leather furniture with the tufts of horsehair stuffing coming out?

page 95

Where are all the hats from the hatstand? And do you remember for how long the bell was broken… Then there was the statue on the stairs, smiling, the fair caretaker, always washing up, the little children always falling through her door.

And your little room with the tiny mirror and the broken window and the piano sounding from outside.

Those were very nice teacups—thin—a nice shape— and the tea was awfully good—so hot.

“At the Vienna Café there is good bread.”

And the cigarettes. The packet done up in writing paper you take from your pocket. It is folded so neatly at the ends like a parcel from the chemists.

And then Slatkovsky—his beard, his ‘glad eye’—his sister, who sat in front of the fire and took off her boot. The two girls who came to see him the Classic Day his Father died. And the view from your window—you remember? The typist sits there and her hat and coat hang in the hall. Now an Indian in a turban walks up that street opposite to the British Museum quartier.

It begins to rain. The streets are very crowded. It is dusky. Now people are running downstairs. That heavy outer door slams. And now the umbrellas go up in the street and it is much darker, suddenly. Dear friend—do not think evil of me—forgive me.