Here I am in France with the same strange smells and street cries,
and almost the same little boys bowling hoops over the very cobbly
cobble stones. I had afternoon tea at a patisserie and ate a great
many gâteaux for the sake of old times. We had a very choppy crossing,
and you would most certainly have been sick had you been on board. It
seemed to me that I must be coming on one of those romantic holidays to
see churches and dead history--only the khaki-clad figures reminded me
that I was coming to see history in the making. It's a funny world that
batters us about so. It's three years since I was in France--the last
time was with Arthur in Provence. It's five years since you and I did
our famous trip together.
I wish you were here--there are heaps of English nurses in the
streets. I expect to sleep in this place and proceed to my destination
to-morrow. How I wish I could send you a really descriptive letter! If
I did, I fear you would not get it--so I have to write in generalities.
None of this seems real--it's a kind of wild pretence from which I
shall awake--and when I tell you my dream you'll laugh and say, "How
absurd of you, dreaming that you were a soldier. I must say you look
like it."
Good-bye, my dearest girl,
God bless you,
CON.