What is at the moment interesting me more than such metaphysics is the problem: Where are the scallops? Once upon a time there used to be Coquilles St. Jacques twice a week, but my faithful landlady can’t get scallops anywhere in these days. Why do things suddenly disappear like this? Is it because the scallop is a cheap luxury, and the fishmonger wants to deal only in the expensive articles? Whitechapel (that very sensible country) is probably full of scallops. Here’s another Chinese poem which gives me great joy:— Confusion overwhelming me, as in a drunken dream, I note that Spring has fled and wander off to hill and stream; With a friendly Buddhist priest I seek a respite from the strife And manifold anomalies which go to make up life. Good night, my dear, R. H. LXXXVIII ROY BARRANCE TO VERENA RABY DEAR AUNT VERENA,—Thank you for your very kind letter, but really I don’t think I am in any such danger as you seem to fear (and it’s frightfully decent of you to take so much interest in me and my affairs) because I always feel that I am a kind of darling of the gods. This must sound horribly conceited, but it isn’t as bad as that really. It’s a kind of faith in a higher protection, and there’s no harm in having that, is there? Anyhow, it keeps me from getting into anything like very serious trouble. I’ve just had another example of this watchfulness, and it’s so wonderful that I must tell you about it. You remember about Stella and how glad we were that it was all over with her? We shouldn’t have suited each other a bit, and as a matter of fact I think she would have dragged me down. Well, after not seeing her for weeks, I ran into her in Bond Street on Monday, and before I knew where I was I’d asked her to dine at the Elysian the next day. That was yesterday. It was foolish, I know, but she was so nice and friendly in spite of it all, and looked rather pathetic, and I always think one should be as kind as possible—in fact I learnt it from you. Anyway, I did it, and then went off and began to regret it at once. I saw what an ass I had been to re-open friendship with her. No one should ever re-open with old flames, particularly when they haven’t played the game. And a meal is particularly unwise, because there may be an extra glass of wine and then where are you? You get soft and melting and forget what you ought to remember, and all the fat is in the fire once more, and before you know where you are you are very likely engaged again. So I went about kicking myself for being so gentle and impulsive, and had a rotten night. The next day I couldn’t telephone or wire to call it off, because I hadn’t her address, and the wretched dinner hung over me like the sword of what’s-his-name all day. Some men of course wouldn’t have gone at all, but I hate breaking engagements.