# Madame Claire/Chapter 13

Stephen's letter in reply to Madame Claire's last was brief. She guessed that he was still suffering, and was not up to writing at any length.
"Bronchitis and phlebitis," he wrote, "are not as pretty as they sound, although your garden amused me very much. Miss McPherson would be happy in it, that's certain. When I'm feeling better I see her casting longing glances at old Jock Wetherby, who's got more ailments than the doctors can put names to. But when I'm at my worst she clucks over me like a proud hen.
"Connie's Count seems to suspect collusion. He tried to pump me about her yesterday. I was out in the sun for five minutes, and he appeared so promptly I think he'd been waiting for me. As soon as he began asking questions I had a coughing fit, so he went away. From what I hear—for I listen to gossip when it suits me to do so—Connie could get a divorce ten times over. I expect he misses her in a way. He found he could make her suffer—an occupation his sort delights in.
​"Well, Claire, my dear, I cannot write more to-night. You are wonderful, and your letters are my great joy. They soothe me. I find myself growing less short-tempered, less out of love with my fellow man.
"There is a little poem that comes to my mind now and speaks of you.
"It is a charming thing, and applies to old friends who love one another and whose days are transient, as well as to young lovers, whose love is perhaps transient.
"Write soon. Tell me more about Judy.
"Stephen."
"Dear Stephen,
"I have your little poem by heart. Thank you for it. The older I grow, the more I value the poets. They are the bravest people I know, for they sing in defiance of a world out of joint. Think of touching the high peaks of rapture with coal at its present price, in the midst of strikes, and a much advertised crime wave! It is difficult to see that the world has improved since the war, but at least one can see that it has changed, and I like to think that it can only change for the better. So I cling to that thought and read the poets, not being one of those who can help to make it better. I feel about the world as I might feel about an Inn where I have supped and been kindly served. I hope it may flourish and not fall into evil hands. Not that I expect to return. It was, after all, only a night's stopping place. But I should like other travelers to find it as I found it, or somewhat better.
"Judy came here to tea a day or two ago, and there came also the victim of the accident in the fog. He is, or soon will be, in love with her, and something of the sort is happening to Judy. If anything should come of it—and I feel that it may, things would not be easy for them. Millie would give the clothes off her back, and so would ​John, for the eldest son, but they expect their daughter to marry for a living. I would do what I could, but that would be little. My income since the war has dwindled surprisingly, and I have some of Robert's poor relations to help. Of course, from Millie's point of view, the man is utterly unsuitable, but he is a gallant fellow, and life has been none too kind to him. I fear, somehow, that he is one of life's inexplicable failures, but I like him none the less for that.
"Connie has conceived an extravagant admiration for Noel. I think I said that she was not a woman to take up things, but I was wrong, for she has 'taken up' Noel. And really, it is amazing the change he has already wrought in her. She takes his frankness and frequent scoldings in a way I never dreamed she would. He is kindness itself to her, takes her to theaters and concerts, and seems to find her an amusing companion. He thinks she has had a pretty bad time of it—though he admits it's her own fault—and is bent on cheering her up. She adores his brutal honesty and his entire lack of respect for age, position, or human frailties. The first time they lunched together, they met at the Ritz, and Connie, it appears, was ablaze with paint. Noel refused to set foot in the dining room until she had ​washed her face, and in the end she meekly sat down with nothing more in the way of make-up than a dusting of powder on her nose. Of course he is a godsend to her. Millie is very angry with me, and Louise will have none of her. Judy gets on with her well enough, but she doesn't amuse Judy as she does Noel.
"Did I tell you Louise heard Eric was in Paris with a 'questionable looking woman'? She was nobly prepared to forgive him, but when she learned that it was only Connie, her humiliation knew no bounds. I fear she is colder to him than ever now.
"Well, well, they must all go through with it as we did. I thank Heaven every day that Time has given me the right to sit quietly on my hilltop. I can still hear the sounds of the conflict below, and the cries of the wounded, but though they are my nearest and dearest I am too conscious of the transience of things, too aware of yesterdays and to-morrows—especially to-morrows—to concern myself greatly. I want them to be happy, but I know they won't be, and I am not God to confer or withhold. I can do nothing but laugh at or comfort them a little. Do you think me hard? No, you know that I am not. The happiest of them all is Noel, for he, like me, ​is a looker-on. I don't know how he has managed to exchange the arena for the spectators' gallery, but he has. I think it is because he wants nothing for himself.
"As for Gordon, he is too ambitious to be happy. He is marrying partly to suit his mother, and partly to gratify his passion for being among the big-wigs, where of course, as Lord Ottway's son-in-law, he will be. But he doesn't know his Helen—yet. I think I do. Her chin is too long and her nose too high.
"Oh, the joy of wanting nothing! The joy of being eighty and immune! But I, even I, have one wish. And that is to see you, my old friend, again. But it is a pleasant want, like a hunger that is soon to be satisfied. For I feel I cannot lose you. Here, or there—what does it matter? I imagine you wince at that, foolish old Stephen!
"Write to me soon. I do hope you are better.
"Yours,
"Claire."