Adis Ababa.
12 April.

My dear Gertrude –

My wife tells me (she’s been writing to you) that she told you that I could not write this week being full of work – arranging things such as accounts before the mail – But that’s time enough – equally so that whatever might happen there is time to send you my love – and to tell you how impatiently wait news of you again – I can’t tell you where you are – probably by now at Damascus – But why Damascus? I should have thought you would go home.

I feel so sure of it I write to London - & Aleppo would be the short way – Is it that the desert holds you still? are you by chance coming up by the old way, oh you untireable –

But if so should I have written to Damascus? I think not – its nearly a month from here –

Some other time to tell you of things – just now it is only to give you my love my dear – it is peace anyway to know you safe – I suppose I shall hear soon, or I fancy that I shall –

Well as has been said I can’t write, - & I can’t –

This isn’t writing its only a thought a wish –

Dick.