Letter XLVI

I know when I go up to my room next I shall find fresh flowers put upon
my table: but the grievous old dear will be carrying a sore heart that I
cannot comfort by any words. I cannot convince her that I am not hiding
in myself any wounds such as she feels on my behalf.

I write this, dearest, as an indirect answer to yours,--which is but
Nan-nan's woe writ large. If I could persuade your two dear and very
different heads how very slightly wounded I am by a thing which a little
waiting will bring right, I could give it even less thought than I do.
Are you keeping the truce in spirit when you disturb yourself like this?
Trust me, Beloved, always to be candid: I will complain to you when I
feel in need of comfort. Be comforted yourself, meanwhile, and don't
shape ghosts of grief which never do a goose-step over me! Ah well,
well, if there is a way to love you better than I do now, only show it
me! Meantime, think of me as your most contented and happy-go-loving.