“In regard to the question of returning hospitality, it does seem to me a most moot point how far such obligations should bind us. Certainly they should not do so if entailing interference with work or prayer. You say nothing on these points, so do consider this question next time you write. It is so disappointing to receive short notes, written in haste, telling one nothing of yourself, and with questions in home letters left unanswered. Do write more fully of yourself—I am so much disturbed about you, and cannot understand why you should say that you have ‘nothing to write about.’ All is of the deepest interest to those who love you so, and you tell us so little! You give no account of your Sundays, spiritual experiences, private readings and the like, but if this does not come spontaneously, it is of no use to try and force it.
“I should like to hear something, however, of your friends. With whom do you work, spend your Sundays, evening leisure hours, etc.? All these details would be of the greatest interest, and, although one has no wish to press on that particular aspect of the case, they are points upon which your father has every right to information.
“Why did you not tell me of your little sketch in the Athene? Owen Quentillian brought it to my notice, supposing me, naturally, to be aware of its authorship. It seemed to me to be well and brightly written, though perhaps a little trivial in conception, but you have a slip in the first paragraph, line 4, where you make ‘etomology’ do duty for ‘entomology.’ If this is a printer’s error, and you did not correct the proofs yourself, draw your editor’s attention to it at once. The final quotation from de Musset, is, I think, incorrect, but I am not sure of this, and cannot verify at present. He is not a writer about whom I care. Do you read much of him?”
At this point Lucilla laid down the letter and said emphatically:
“No, he doesn’t. Read de Musset, I mean. Probably he got the verse he quotes out of a book of quotations.”
The Canon looked surprised.
“I am aware that modern methods are slip-shod, but Adrian’s knowledge of French is much above the average. Our evening readings-aloud have seen to that.”
Lucilla picked up the sheets of paper again, wondering if there was very much more of the letter to come—a wonder not infrequently felt by those with whom Canon Morchard was in correspondence.
“Do eschew the use of slang absolutely, at least in writing! I quite consider that ‘stunt’ comes under this heading, in your article. It is an Americanism, and so ugly! These criticisms, if such they be, are only the outcome, need I tell you, of my really intense desire that you should do full justice to yourself, and to the talent that I feel sure is in you. And let me repeat again, my dearest lad, that this applies doubly to the more serious fault-finding that I have been obliged, as your father, to put into this letter. You must write to me fully and freely if it seems to you that anything which I have said is unjust, but I believe that your own conscience, and the candour that I know is yours, will endorse all that I have written. In that case, you will know well where to seek for the unfailing strength necessary to a fresh beginning and a full confession of error.
“I cannot tell you with what anxiety I shall await your answer, and do make it a really open-hearted one, as I well know that you can. There shall be no cloud upon our meeting when we do meet, once things have been made clear between us by letter, but I do feel that for your own sake, far more than for mine, this strange reticence on your part must not continue.