I had as usual two letters to write. There are always two and often
twenty, but this morning there were two only. One was to my old
friend, A., who had just gone into bankruptcy; the other was to my
young friend, B., whose sporting efforts in France have won him very
rapid promotion. He was just bringing his new captain's stars to
England on a few days' leave.
A. is a somewhat austere and melancholy man; B. is just as different
as you can imagine.