This reminds me of a true story, told me by Mrs. Northgate-Grove, of their page-boy, who has been very carefully brought up. At the local Peace sports he was entered for the 100-yard race, which, he said, would be an absolutely sure thing for him, provided the telegraph boy didn’t run. On the night before Peace Day, one of the family passing his bedroom door heard him on his knees imploring Divine interference. “O God, I pray Thee that some important message may prevent the telegraph boy from being able to compete.” And here’s another nice prayer story. A small girl was overheard by her mother asking God to “Graciously make Rome the capital of Turkey.” “But why do you pray for that, darling?” “Because that’s how I put it in the examination paper to-day.” My head aches from this overture to the millennium and I wish we were a year on. We are settling down so perilously slowly. In fact, here in London you would think it a perpetual Bank Holiday, whereas never in our history ought we to have been working harder than since the Armistice. But who is to tell the people how serious it all is? The statesmen’s “grave warnings” and the newspapers’ constant chidings equally are usually cancelled by parallel pages of incitements to frivolity and expense. England, for the greatest nation in the world, can be singularly free from _esprit de corps_. But these are gloomy Peace-Day reflections—possibly due to the fact that it has begun to rain and the fireworks will be spoiled. I am to see them from a roof in Park Lane. I would much rather spend the evening in the bosom of some nice family and watch a baby being bathed and put to bed. That is the prettiest sight in the world; but I don’t know any babies any more. Where are they all? Every one—particularly as he gets older and more disposed to saturninity—should know a baby and now and then see it being put to bed. Well, here goes for the fireworks.—Yours, R. H. _P.S._—Here is the poem—foreshadowing joys beyond all the dreams of Oliver Lodge:— Within the streams, Pausanias saith, That down Cocytus’ valley flow, Girdling the grey domain of Death, The spectral fishes come and go; The ghosts of trout flit to and fro. Persephone, fulfil my wish, And grant that in the shades below My ghost may land the ghosts of fish! LXXXIII VERENA RABY TO RICHARD HAVEN DEAR RICHARD,—The Peace Celebrations here, they tell me, were very quiet. I am glad that they are over at last and we can now all begin.... Your long letter about the benefactions has given me plenty to think about for some days. I had not thought of the distribution of money as being so full of amusing possibilities: almost too full. I should like to do something of the kind, but to confine it to my own neighbourhood. But then one’s name would be certain to leak out, and it is so dreadful to be thanked.