Well, here we are in the third year of the war, as Kitchener foresaw,
and still with a long way to go to the frontier.
Thanks, by the way, for the article about Kitchener. After all, what can
one say of such an end for such a man, after such a career, in which
so many times he might have found a soldier's death--then to be
drowned like a rat, doing his duty? It leaves one simply speechless. I
was, you see. I hadn't a comment to throw at you.
It's hot at last, I'm thankful to say, and equally thankful that the news
from the front is good. It is nothing to throw one's hat in the air about,
but every inch in the right direction is at least prophetic.
Nothing to tell you about. Not the smallest thing happens here. I do
nothing but read my paper, fuss in the garden, which looks very
pretty, do up a bundle for my filleul once in a while, write a few letters,
and drive about, at sundown, in my perambulator. If that is not an
absurd life for a lady in the war zone in these days, I 'd like to know
what it is.
I hope this weather will last. It is good for the war and good for the
crops. But I am afraid I shall hope in vain.