" I refer, of
course, to Sylvia's heart because you've made it sufficiently plain to
all of us that yours _can't._ Well, the best of luck go with you.
AUSTIN
* * * * *
Southampton,
October 27
DEAR SYLVIA:
I had a feeling in my bones when I woke up this morning that something
extra pleasant was going to happen; and when I got down to breakfast, and
saw, on the top of my pile of mail, a letter postmarked Hamstead, but in
a strange handwriting, I knew that it _had_ happened.
You begin by scolding me because I haven't written mother oftener. I know
I deserve it, and I'll write her from now on, every Sunday, at least; but
then you go on by asking why I've never written you, except the little
note I sent back by the pilot, which you say is not a note at all, "but a
series of repetitions of unmerited thanks." I haven't written because I
didn't feel that I you wanted to be bothered with me. And how can I
write, and not say, "Thank you, thank you, thank you," with every line?
Why, I've learned more, enjoyed more, _lived_ more, in these two months
since I came to Europe, than I had in all the rest of my life before!
Sylvia--but I won't, if you don't like it!
Now, to answer your question, "What have I been doing all this time?" I
feel sure you've seen what I have written, so you know what a wonderful
trip I had from, The Hague to Paris.
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