Sunday 11th (April 1913)

Dearest, I’m so dog tired tonight that I don’t think I can write much. I came in at 7, speechless & voiceless, from weariness I suppose. But by dinnertime I felt better. The Richmonds are here over Sunday which is most fortunate because my Father has taken to his bed with what seems to be a very severe attack of laryngitis — it may turn out to be anything, his doctor says cheerfully. He looks very ill, I think. However, he has been frightfully overworked & the price has to be paid in some form.
Herbert tells me that the business which was to have begun tomorrow in your part of the world will probably be postponed till Italy comes in — lest any reverse should check her wavering heart. I should imagine it’s a wise decision, but you perhaps rage in inaction
— rages that don’t matter, my very dear. There’s only one kind of rage that moves the world. You’ve forgotten it these days, my philosopher; but I remember. — That’s not what I meant to write to you about.
This next week or fortnight must be full of big issues. We think here that there will be a new thrust in Flanders, to support the French attack on St. Mihiel & prevent Germany from sending troops either there or to the East. And there may be a naval engagement of some magnitude. Before this reaches you it will all have happened, or not happened. But there’s a general feeling that the tide has turned, Inshallah[?]. It’s curious how universal it is.
The Geog. Soc., hearing I’m in England, has written to beg me to lecture for them. I showed the letter to Lord Robert who observed with decision “the answer is in the negative”. And of course it is. I’ve been to busy & too tired to write to them yet, but I must. I don’t the least want to lecture for them or anyone — or to write or to think except to you & of you. I’m yours.