My Dear Sister,—I hasten to thank you for the timely case of champagne which you have sent for Letitia. It will, I am sure, revive her, even though the vintage is a little immature. I consider 1911 to be still too young, which reminds me that it is in the correction of errors such as this, trifling but easily evitable, that I could be of so much use to you on the kind of periodical supervising visit to your establishment (now necessarily neglected through your most regrettable accident) which I have before suggested, and which, even at great personal inconvenience, I am still ready at any time to pay. At the present moment, however, it seems to me that a visit from Letitia would be even more desirable, for when one is sick and surrounded by comparative strangers, who should be a more welcome guest than a sister? And it is long since you two have met. Apart from the pleasure of reunion, the little change would do Letitia good. Save for myself, who am not, I am aware, too vivacious a companion, the poor dear sees almost no one. With a slightly augmented income she could take a place in society here far more appropriate to her birth; but when one has not the means to return hospitality one is a little sensitive about accepting it. Awaiting your reply, I am, your affectionate brother-in-law,
Septimus Tribe
XXXI
Verena Raby to Richard Haven
My Dear Richard,—This is my first letter in my own hand and it must be short. I am very grateful to you. Would not that be a nice epitaph—“He never disappointed”? Well, it is true of you.
Your idea of the short poems is perfect and I have already learned some.
Nesta is excellent company, but I fear she is giving me more time than it is fair to take. Every now and then, when she is apparently looking at me, I can see that her glance is really fixed on her children, many miles off. The far-away nursery look.
It is almost worth being ill to discover how kind people can be. If it is true (and of course it is) that to give pleasure to others is the greatest happiness, then I can comfort myself, as I lie here apparently useless, that I have my uses after all, since I am the cause of that happiness in so many of my friends.—Yours,
V.