I meant to write you a long letter yesterday from the country. I went to
stay with the Shamiers. I thought, of course, George would be there. He
didn't come near the office on Friday. He wasn't there and evidently
wasn't even expected.
Louise in tearing spirits and a new man there called Lavroff, a Russian
philosopher; youngish and talking English better than any of us, except
that he always said "I _have been_ seeing So-and-so to-day," "I _have
been to the concert yesterday_."
Needless to say, I didn't have a moment to write to you, in fact the
only place where I get time to write you a line is at the office.
Everything is appallingly dull. Mellor, the Secretary, had dinner with
me one night. He spoke a little but not much. I think he is shy but not
stupid.
George likes being in London, but Louise didn't mention him. It's
curious if after all this fuss and trouble to get this job and to be in
London it all comes to an end.
The tablecloths have arrived. Thank you a thousand times. They are
exactly what I wanted. The curtains have arrived too but they are a
failure; too bright. I can't afford to get new ones yet. This week I
have got some dinners. George said something about giving a dinner this
week.
Yours in great haste,