Here I am in France with the same strange smells and street cries, and
almost the same little boys bowling hoops over the very cobbly cobble
stones. I had afternoon tea at a patisserie and ate a great many gâteaux
for the sake of old times. We had a very choppy crossing, and you would
most certainly have been sick had you been on board. It seemed to me
that I must be coming on one of those romantic holidays to see churches
and dead history--only the khaki-clad figures reminded me that I was
coming to see history in the making. It's a funny world that batters us
about so. It's three years since I was in France--the last time was with
Arthur in Provence. It's five years since you and I did our famous trip
together.
I wish you were here--there are heaps of English nurses in the streets.
I expect to sleep in this place and proceed to my destination to-morrow.
How I wish I could send you a really descriptive letter! If I did, I
fear you would not get it--so I have to write in generalities. None of
this seems real--it's a kind of wild pretence from which I shall
awake-and when I tell you my dream you'll laugh and say, "How absurd of
you, dreaming that you were a soldier. I must say you look like it."
Good-bye, my dearest girl,
God bless you,
Con.