If you ask me why I have not written to you for such a long time, I must shrink within my shell of femininity and refuse to give you reasons. For I have them, and they are compounded from a recipe handed down from Mother Eve. Well, I write to you now because I must. That reason I make you a present of. I want to be in town again, in the King's Road, and to see you by the fireside, ready to be asked questions and to answer them, and to comfort your erratic friend Clytie with your kindliness and wisdom. She is looked upon as a bad girl here, and pines for someone who thinks her human, and who also thinks her art human, and can help her in it. Listen, now; I have got _the_ subject at last; it is eating my heart out almost, I have to keep it hidden so to myself. I must tell you--for the sake's sake. “Faustina as a young, innocent girl, with the foreshadowings of passion on her face.” There! Now you know. What do you think of it? Do you remember my depression at Dinan? Well, I think it was there I got the conception. I can't tell you more. But it is haunting me. I feel what I want to do, but I can't get a face. What shall I do? Tell me. You know, dear Kent, in our talks, we have often disregarded principles that move the world pretty potently. But as an artist I am bound to recognise the part that passion plays in the tragedy of things. “These things are life: And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse,” as Meredith says in “Modern Love.” (Do you remember our reading it together?) I can't write properly about it. I long for a talk with you. I shall break away soon and come for it. So be prepared with all your sympathy. Do you miss me just a little bit? I often fancy my perverseness must give a little wholesome irritation to your life, and you are very good not to mind it. I always seem to be coming to you for help and sympathy. When can I ever do anything for you? You must tell me, dear friend, when the time comes. I should like to tell you to give Winnie a kiss for me, but that is idiotic, isn't it? Yet you know what I mean. See that the dear child is not wearing herself out. There! I am asking you to do something else for me. Do write a long letter, full of yourself, with just a paragraph about the needs, artistic and otherwise, of Your friend, C. D.