You ought to thank your lucky stars, my dear, that you _are_ the sort of
person for whom “a good husband” is enough. But then, of course, Mother
never brought us up to be brainy. We always lived so quietly at home,
and what you’ve never had you don’t miss, as the saying goes. I can’t
say I should have cared for an office job myself, though perhaps it
would have been better for my health if I had had something to occupy my
mind. But I am really feeling much better now, and I am getting free of
that dreadful sensation of being obliged to go back and see if I really
have done things when I know perfectly well I have. I know you say
everybody feels like that sometimes, but you don’t know what it’s like
to be _compelled_ to do it! The other night I got the idea that I had
left the beef out on the kitchen table, and though I really remembered
quite clearly shutting it up in the meat-safe, I simply _had_ to creep
downstairs in my dressing-gown and make sure, otherwise I shouldn’t have
got a wink of sleep. Still, that has been the only relapse for about a
fortnight now.
As a matter of fact, we have had quite a lot of thrills this week—very
good for us—occupies our minds, you know. The upstairs tenants have
arrived!! Two young men—the artist and a poet! They came in the day
before yesterday, and oh, my dear, the bumpings and noises! They brought
a grand piano—I only hope they won’t be playing it all night, because
I’m simply good for nothing if I don’t get my sleep before midnight—and
there’s a gramophone as well. Why can’t people be content with the
wireless, which shuts down at a reasonable hour?
I haven’t properly seen the poet yet, except that he’s rather tall and
dark and thin. I’ve only caught glimpses of him running in and out of
the front door, but the artist came in the first night after dinner to
ask about the coal bunkers. He is quite exciting looking—very
young—not more than twenty-four or five, I should say, with a lot of
thick hair and one of those rather sulky-handsome faces. He has very
nice manners, and didn’t address _all_ his conversation to Mr. and Mrs.
Harrison and leave me out in the cold, as most of these young men do.
Mr. Harrison, even, was quite gracious to him and offered him a drink,
and he stayed talking for quite a little while. His name is Lathom, and
he has very little money and has to take afternoon classes in an
Art-school, but, of course, that is only to make money until he gets
recognised. He has exhibited pictures in Manchester (I think he said),
and some other places up north, but he didn’t talk much about his work.
He seems nice and modest about it. I think Mr. Harrison is rather
pleased that there should be an artist in the house. He started laying
down the law about art at once, in his usual way, and brought out some
of his water-colours for Mr. Lathom to look at. Mr. Lathom said they
were very nice indeed, which rather surprised me, because I always think
they are rather wishy-washy. However, I suppose he couldn’t very well
have said anything else, as he was drinking Mr. Harrison’s whiskey and
had never seen him till that moment.
Mrs. Harrison seemed rather nervous all the time, and she said
afterwards she thought Mr. Lathom was quite a pleasant young man, but
she did wish George wouldn’t inflict his painting on everybody. It must
be very humiliating to be ashamed of one’s husband’s manners.
I have a dreadful confession to make about Tom’s stockings! With all my
care, one of the turn-overs has come out slightly larger and looser than
the other. It is so tiresome! Why should one’s knitting vary so from day
to day? I suppose as long as one is a human being and not a machine one
must get variations in one’s work, but I thought I had been so careful.
I simply can’t face unpicking it all, and it isn’t really very
noticeable. Tell Tom, if he can manage to put up with the trifling
difference for a few weeks, it will probably even itself up in the wash.
I went out to Virginia Water on Sunday on a ’bus and had a lovely walk.
I have been trying to put down my impressions in a little sketch. Dr.
Trevor thinks it is quite good, and says I must certainly persevere. He
says my power of _feeling_ things so intensely ought to make me a really
good writer, when I have mastered the technique of putting it down on
paper.
Best love to you all. Give the children each a hug from their Auntie. I
hope you are keeping free from colds.
Your affectionate sister,
AGGIE