YOU DEAR LUCKY CLEM,—I am so glad you are fixed up all comfy and I wish I could do the same, but Herself won’t hear of it. She says that one mad daughter out in the world when there is no need for it is enough. I can’t make her see that it isn’t the money that matters, but the importance of doing something for the sake of one’s own dignity. All the same, some one must of course stay with her. I’m sure that if I were to go, Adela wouldn’t stick it another minute. But remember me if you ever hear of an opening or if this Mr. Haven of yours is proposing to distribute any more damsels among his friends. Herself has been very fit lately and we’ve got two more Dexters—such pets. One is named Dilly and the other Dally, but that’s not their nature. We liked the names for them, that’s all. So far from being their nature, they give quarts of milk. We went over to the Pattern at Kilmakilloge last week in the motor-boat, but Tim wouldn’t let us stay long because the boys were out with their shillelaghs and he was fearful of a fight. But it was great fun. Dr. O’Connor was there with his new wife, very massive and handsome, and he was so comically proud of her, and Mr. Sheehan was as mischievous as ever and even invited us to play lawn tennis at Derreen by moonlight. It would have been funny if we had and Lord Lansdowne had turned up. We walked round the lake once, with the cripples, and gave shillings to I don’t know how many beggars, and then Tim forced us away. Every one was jigging then, except those who were singing in the inn. Good night, lucky one.—Your only PAT _P.S._—This did not get off last night and now I re-open it to say that I am enclosing a letter which arrived this morning and has all the appearance of being the handiwork of a beau. I like the writing, so decisive and distinct. P. XLV BRYAN FIELD TO CLEMENCY POWER [_Enclosure_] DEAR MISS POWER,—I promised I would let you know when I was returning to England. Well, I am due next week, for the hospital is closing. I suppose you don’t know of a nice snug little practice in a good sporting neighbourhood with several wealthy _malades imaginaires_ of both sexes dotted conveniently about? That’s what I want, a kind of sinecure. Forgive the low ambition. Indeed I am punished already for indulging it, for see how double-edged the word “sinecure” is, and what a sarcasm on my profession! Having had one or two letters to you returned as “gone away” I have sent this to your home address to be forwarded. I hope you did not think that I should let you go, having once found you! The skies are not so lavish with their blessings as that! No, begob! I shall be very unhappy until an answer comes to this.—Yours sincerely, BRYAN FIELD XLVI HAZEL BARRANCE TO VERENA RABY