25, Guilford Street,
LONDON. W.C.1.

27th August, 1936.

My dear Mary,

Thank you for those two superb letters. You
saw the whole thing (even from the meagre information I
gave you) exactly as it is. You gave me two ( for me)
masterly solutions. You filled me with reassurance.
You are a wonderful woman, and I love you.

It was so grand to be understood so completely.
To have one's imagined basenesses known and discussed,
and to feel no shame thereby. That was due, I see, to
the skill with which you pitched your letter on
exactly the right note of detached intimacy. You did
me a lot of good - and did it gracefully, with elegance.
What more could one ask, and how seldom could one get that,
from anybody?

Don't you see how *lucky* I am to have met you?

At the moment, until I can fit myself for the
harder course, I propose to work on your second plan -
the line of wise temperance. I am going to do it less,
and select more. I am going to work harder, and live more
tidily. I will be a credit to all parties yet.

What am I to say that you know. You don't merely
say you know, meaning you have a book-learned and hearsay
theory, but you know, and that, of course doubles me up.

-2-

belief in you. You know the methods, and you
know the vocabulary. You know the naptha flaring
sense of excitement and adventure, the thrill of
the chase, the thrill of the squalid debauch, the
horrible, yet fascinating, sense of sin. You are
very much like God - all knowing, omniescent, yet
not blase with experience.

You are quite right, of course, when you say
that with me its just the fun of the fair, and
not the compulsion of an inborn queerness, that
drives me.

The only point of yours which I refuse to
accept, is the point about the child. You are
absolutely right, but for some deep reason I find
myself not only unwilling, but almost afraid to
even think about the matter. I always say to
myself, "Yes, but I shall never have a baby, much
as I should like one." And change the subject rapidly.

I feel a bit guilty about talking about myself
so much to you. But it is such a blessed sweet
relief to be able to sit down and have a good *tell*.
You'll know that, and make allowances.

My book "The Mirtle Tree" has been accepted
warmly by the publishers. They at the same time shhok
their heads (you know what publishers are) and said

that while it was gratifying to be able to publish
books of merit in these hard times, books of merit
seldom sold well, and we must all do what we could
to help in that direction. And did I know Virginia
Woolf or Aldous Huxley, because it was a book of
such as nature as would probably appeal to them, and
if they could be induced to read a proof before
publication, it might... Fortunately I knew neither
of them, for I should have found it most embarrassing
to do anything of that kind to help my sales. Indeed
I should have refused. I can't bring myself to care
very much about the state of my sales, can you?
Although on the other hand, I should like a little more
money and my freedom.

To my dismay I find that your "Lettres Imaginaires"
is not even in the B.M. But I am sure there must be
one in London somewhere, and shall be for ever on the
look out for it. And I have "Childhood at Sultans" to
look forward to. I think I shall apply for a review
copy. I do run a copy of book reviews for my paper
the "Beds & Herts Evening Telegraph" (though both column
and paper are unfortunately of no importance.)