Somehow, when Grace's note reached me at the Local Government Board (she
has a habit of addressing her communications to me there, in faintly
perfumed envelopes much appreciated by the messengers), I was not in a
poetical mood. For the past three weeks my branch had been engaged on
the subject of Drains in the Eastern Counties, and that very morning I
was completing an exhaustive minute dealing with the probable effects of
an improved system of sanitation on the public health of the Borough of
Ipswich. Still, I felt that something must be done. So I consulted
Jones. Jones is, like myself, a poet; he is also the official whom
Ministers of the Crown are accustomed, when hard pressed, to consult on
the subject of Infantile Mortality amongst Suburban Undertakers; why, I
cannot say, though many think it is on the strength of his having been a
Philpott's Theological Prizeman at Oxford. I scribbled him a line in
pencil: "Come over into number thirteen and help us; and bring your
cigarettes." He came, and before leaving the office at 4.30 I was
enabled to comply with my sister-in-law's request. I wrote as follows:--
"Dear Grace,--I do not remember Mary Smith. On the other hand, since in
poetry, as in boxing and batting, the proper management of the feet is
everything, and requires more practice than either you or your friend
have apparently been able to devote to it, I have much pleasure in
coming to the rescue. In dealing with members of the medical profession
it is never wise to beat about the bush; superfluous subtlety merely
irritates them. I have therefore endeavoured to make the poem just the
artless outpouring of the innocent passion of such a girl as I imagine
your friend Mary Smith to be. Here it is.