New Canaan, Connecticut
10. Nov. 1928
Thanks be to the good God! You are still there, and the wire is open again. Your most precious letter is here. The harmony of paper and ink, gold brown, is intriguing beyond resistance. I surrender at discretion, and at this distance, to the ineffable lure of color and soft words. To materialize myself in your Circeís den would probably mean instant translation to the Seraphic sphere not of this world. And God help us. You preferring all things from one son of Adam, and I being the frailest of the frail. To say nothing of the present burdens of happiness already weighing upon so fragile a prop. Pray that the starry canopy of heaven do not crash down upon our heads!
Your words are more and more amazing to me every mail that carries them. The honesty of modern youth in such post-War angels as Margaret fill [sic] me with thankful happiness and with a touch of panic too. When I think of the terrible humbug and inhibitions of my lost (thank God!) Victorian day, I cannot be glad enough. There could never have been then one such as you are now. Margaret darling. . . .
But first of all about beautiful Kathryn.1 You say, "Your lovely Kathryn." Hardly that, of course, except as a phrase meaning my admiration, such as any sane person must have had for so fair a character. But that is enough to make me wish I could be of any help. It is frightful. What can I do? Please say. Ah, if only Ernest Fewster2 were here. He isso wise, so all-understanding, so strong, so kind, so deeply skilled in soul and body ailments. And why should she have wished you to come down to Twilight so emphatically? We canít let her suffer so surely! My heart bleeds for so pitiful a break and of course one has the wish to rush to aid. I wish we knew more. Do divert her, if you see her. Is there anything I could do? You are wise. You must be able to do something. Tell me more at once, dear.
I must run now, and will finish answering your letter later.
I amfull of poems!