I meant to answer your letter sooner but my strong right arm refused to obey me. I should love to see you one afternoon next week. Would Wednesday suit you? I am a very dull dog, and in bed, but I try to look as though I were there for pleasure and not for necessity. But do come—There is a power of things to be talked over. M. will send you a very pretty, delicate, little flowery map of the way. It's extremely easy to find and I swear to God it's not more than 8 minutes from the Tube station.

I am awfully glad that Prelude has given a little pleasure. I have felt guilty towards you on its account, as a matter of fact, for I thought it had been a Bad Failure and you cursed the day….

Well, Virginia dear….

They have tied a bunch of beech leaves to my bed post. What lovely things they are—so full of life. The cold, reluctant air blows in, the fire streams up the chimney and a little clock outside strikes three in a way that raises your eyebrows. ‘My dear child—I am perfectly prepared to believe you, there is no earthly need to insist on it.’ I hate that clock. Now, in France, a little clock like that would strike as though it were all astonishment and amusement at finding itself at three or four or five, but —however, it's no matter.