… The postman knocked into my dream with your letter and the back door key. I had locked myself in three times three with Mrs. G.'s key, but I am glad you sent me ours.

I have begun the story and meant to finish it this evening: it feels pretty good to me.

Oh, dear! I am afraid W. is having his birthday cake far too soon—like all our young men (except you and me). What a surprise for them when we sit down at the heads of their tables—all among their cake crumbs and groaning tummies—you, with a laurel wreath on your darling head, and me trailing a perfectly becoming cloud of glory.

… Pride is a charming, sheltering tree: but don't think I'm resting in it. I'm only standing underneath with my eyes turned up for a moment's grace.

Last night Mrs. G. and I had a glass of dandelion wine, and over it I heard how Mrs. Brown's petticoat had dropped off in the hurdle race “King Edward's Coronation time.” Such goings on!

Good-bye for to-day. “Not tomorrow, not the next day, but the next.” Tell me what train you are coming by. I cannot quite believe that you are coming back here. I feel … quite alone and as if I were writing to someone in the air—so strange.