Hornsey, N., _Dec. 14, 1910_. DEAR SIR:--I have never written to an author before, but I cannot help writing to ask you _when_ you are going to give us another play. I cannot tell you how much I enjoy your plays--they take me into another world. Please do not imagine that I am an enthusiastic schoolgirl. I am the mother of four dear little children, and my husband and I both act in a dramatic club at Hornsey. We are very anxious to perform one of your plays, but the committee is afraid of the expense. I suppose it would be asking too much of you to lend us some of the costumes of _The Fall of Babylon_. I think it is your greatest work up till now, and I simply live in all those wonderful old cities now and read everything I can find about them. I was brought up very strictly when I was young and grew to hate the Bible--please do not be shocked at this--but since I saw _The Fall of Babylon_ I have taken to reading it again. I went nine times--twice in the gallery, three times in the pit, twice in the upper circle and twice in the dress circle, once in the fifth row at the side and once right in the middle of the front row! I cut out the enclosed photo of you from _The Tatler_, and, would it be asking too much to sign your name? Hoping for the pleasure of a reply, I remain, Your sincere admirer, (MRS.) ENID FOSTER. * * * * * "What extraordinary lunatics there are in this world," Miss Hamilton had commented. "Have you noticed the one constant factor in these letters? All the women begin by saying that it is the first time they have ever written to an author; of course, they would say the same thing to a man who kissed them. The men, however, try to convey that they're in the habit of writing to authors. I think there's a moral to be extracted from that observation." Now, John had not yet attained--and perhaps it was improbable that he ever would attain--those cold summits of art out of reach alike of the still, sad music and the hurdy-gurdies of humanity, so that these letters from unknown men and women, were they never so foolish, titillated his vanity, which he called "appealing to his imagination." "One must try to put oneself in the writer's place," he had urged, reproachfully. "Um--yes, but I can't help thinking of Mrs. Enid Foster living in those wonderful old cities. Her household will crash like Babylon if she isn't careful, and her family will be reduced to eating grass like Nebuchadnezzar, if the green-grocer's book is neglected any longer." "You won't allow the suburbs to be touched by poetry?"