Which for no reason brings me to the subject of growing middle-aged, an experience which you are enjoying, I trust; I know I enjoy it. What an advantage we have over our children! While they, to their embarrassment, grow up--voices changing, legs and arms becoming too obvious, self-consciousness and shallow romanticism seizing them--we gracefully, comfortably, grow down. Perhaps it is as a protective measure that I, a private soldier, grow vain--as snails develop shells--but I confess it is with consummate pleasure that I contemplate my senility and, may I say, mediævality. I picture myself at forty, rotund but eminently presentable, moustache and hair delicately grayed, tailored admirably, with the leisurely power no young man may have. I picture myself at sixty, with a long white moustache, a pale gray tweed suit, a very large Panama hat. I can see my gnarled but beautifully groomed hands as they tremblingly pour out the glass of dry sherry which belongs to every old man’s breakfast. I cannot think of myself at seventy or eighty--I grow hysterical with applause--I am lost in a delirium of massive ebony canes, golden snuff-boxes, and daily silk hats. And as for you! My God! what a vision! That dear autumnal hair silvering--the mouth of my delight exquisitely etched with honourable lines--each one the record of a year’s love--those eyes richer in their mystery--but I cannot write of this--for the thought might give me power to sweep away the years and make me find you, when I come back from the Wars, becapped and tremulous and leaning on two sticks! NO! I don’t want you to be old now--I want you to be the innocent sophisticated young woman you are in the little picture I carry (traditionally!) over my heart. But I want to watch you grow old--if I can watch you and at the same time hold you in my arms. JOYCE. * * * * * April 1, 1918. Dear Aline: