It was from Cecil, dated from the barracks.
My dear Dr. Lucian,
You will have heard from my mother, and she will thank you better than I can for all you’ve done for us both. Of course, I know that what you did for me was for her sake.
I was sent here this morning. It’s all very strange at present, but I’m thankful to be here, and all the men say we shall be sent to the trenches almost at once. I hope we will be, and I hope that I shan’t ever come back from there. This isn’t just swank, but true.
Very, very gratefully
Cecil Aviolet.
And after he had read that letter, the doctor very deliberately sat down, took out his fountain pen and unscrewed it, and then and there wrote his reply:
My dear Cecil,
Thanks for writing; it was very good of you to find time. I will do everything I can for your mother, for her sake and for yours too, while you’re away, and send you a line with news of her from time to time.
I expect you’ve been through hell, in these last few weeks, and I wish there was anything one could do to help, but it’s the isolation of these things that makes them what they are. I’d like to add, if you won’t think me impertinent, that from a purely professional point of view I should say you’ve turned the corner. But it takes a good deal of pluck to go on, after that, as you’re finding.
My sister asked me in her last letter to give you her love—a message she’s chary with, as a rule, but you’re an old favourite of hers.