Departure.

Retta and John have gone! It is only now, a couple of weeks later, that I know how I will miss her. Of course, it's only for eighteen months; but it was so good to know that Retta was there, and to be able to pop in to see her, and to know that any time she might be rushing in to our house, to show us her latest bargain, or with some plan for an outing, a party, an evening for the new young man in the neighbourhood, “who plays the violin marvellously. We'll have all our musical friends.”

I'll certainly feel very flat with Retta away. She's one of those people that things happen to. She's so eager, so active, so alive, that things can't help moving in her vicinity.

I'm calculating now when her first air-mail letter will arrive. Her mother will, of course, be glad to hand on the news, but I'm rather hoping for a letter to myself.

Dear Retta,—I'm so glad his firm has sent John for that eighteen months in London. Of course he won't be in London all the time, and Retta plans to accompany him on his trips round the country. They hope also to visit the Continent but are vague as to time (depending on John's holiday) and places.

Retta is interested in everything, including even these notes of mine every month. That's why I've rambled on about her—because I've asked her to tell me anything which she thinks will particularly appeal to New Zealand women. I'm hoping much from her letters. Retta loves clothes, and even more, she loves people. As to places, I don't know; it will be interesting to see how she reacts to this storied England of ours.

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