He opened one from Rose, in her sprawling handwriting that yet held character, and smiled a little, as he always did, at the strange stilted phraseology that he knew her to evolve with so much difficulty whenever she imposed upon herself the uncongenial task of letter-writing.
My dear Maurice,
Ces has been sent off to the barracks and he’ll be in uniform by this time.
They mean to be kind, here, but of course they don’t understand. Sir Thomas says Cecil must come here for the leave they all get before being sent off to fight. I think Ces wants to, really, because he’s always been fond of Squires, and he asked me to stay on here for a bit, till he goes out. I’ve told the hospital I’m not going back for the present. They’ll understand, knowing what’s happened.
I haven’t seen Henrietta yet, but I’ll go soon, and I’ll write and tell you how she is. I had a very nice letter from her.
It wouldn’t be any good me trying to thank you, dear Maurice, for all you did. I can’t say what I feel about it, and never can. There never was any one like you, and I’ll never forget it to my dying day. But I can’t write things, as you know.
It isn’t too bad here. Ford and Diana aren’t here, thank goodness, and I don’t mind anything except Ces, now.
Please go and see Uncle A. if not too busy. I expect he’s down on his luck, and he likes you. Give him my love, and Felix Menebees too.
Yours ever,
Rose Aviolet.
The doctor carefully folded up the sheet of paper and put it into his pocket-book before he opened the other letter.