Yours as ever,
Peter Harding.
P.S.—There will of course be a spare bedroom and a well-stoked fire here against your return next October.
[V]
To Hugh Pontrex, Villa Rosa, Mentone.
91b Harley Street, W.,
March 23, 1910.
My dear Hugh,
Our exchange of letters, since you finally left our fickle climate, has become so regular that I would apologise for not having written to you since the New Year, were it not that by so doing I should be distilling the poison of formality into the pot-luck of our correspondence. So I won't.
I am sorry to hear that the bronchitis has been bothering you again, joining hands with anno Domini to remind you of our human frailty. But your fingers, I see, have lost none of their cunning, and I immensely enjoyed your little exhibition of etchings at Obach's. Two of them I have acquired, I am glad to say, and they are looking at me as I write. And now I almost think that I shall have to take a third. It has drifted into Obach's window, and for several days past its fascination has been growing upon me. Three or four times in passing I have paused to consider it; and on each occasion it has brightened far more than Bond Street for me.