November 23.
I am sitting in the sun, having read your letter. The valley of the —— is below me, a mile wide, all reed-beds and half submerged willows, with the main stream lying like a blue snake amongst pale acres of sedge.
Damn! I was going to write a long and cosy letter, but was called back. I had escaped for an hour from Orderly Room with your letter and a sketchbook, and was caught in the act. No time now.
November 25.
THE SOMME VALLEY
A few more moments with you before you go to bed.
Yes, isn't it funny how we seem to be talking face to face! And to every question of mine you reply in three days' time and vice versa. It always sounds to me like this, rather:
| Question. | Answer. | |
| Mon. | Isn't it cold? | None. |
| Tues. | Have you seen mother? | None. |
| Wed. | Are you happy? | None. |
| Thurs. | How are you all? | Freezing. |
| Fri. | When did I see you last? | Only yesterday. |
| Sat. | May I have a cake! | Yes, very. |
| Sun. | How is Queen Anne? | Much better. |
| Mon. | None. | Last April. |
| Tues. | None. | I'll send one. |
| Wed. | None. | Dead. |
Don't you find it's a bit like that? What question can I have asked a week ago to which the answer is a rabbit? So tiresome when we want to talk at very close range.
As to leave—well let's not talk about that. Every dog has his day.