This letter is written to welcome you to England, but I may be with you
when it is opened. It was glorious news to hear that you were coming--I
was only playing a forlorn bluff when I sent those cables. You're on the
sea at present and should be half way over. Our last trip over together
you marvelled at the apparent indifference of the soldiers on board, and
now you're coming to meet one of your own fresh from the Front. A
change!
O what a nine days we're going to have together--the most wonderful that
were ever spent. I dream of them, tell myself tales about them, live
them over many times in imagination before they are realised. Sometimes
I'm going to have no end of sleep, sometimes I'm going to keep awake
every second, sometimes I'm going to sit quietly by a fire, and
sometimes I'm going to taxi all the time. I can't fit your faces into
the picture--it seems too unbelievable that we are to be together once
again. To-day I've been staging our meeting--if you arrive first, and
then if I arrive before you, and lastly if we both hit London on the
same day. You mustn't expect me to be a sane person. You're three
rippers to do this--and I hope you'll have an easy journey. The only
ghost is the last day, when the leave train pulls out of Charing Cross.
But we'll do that smiling, too; C'est la guerre.
Yours always and ever, CON.