Sunday the things you said remain with me; if they were epigrams they were vivid and to me very real.
I hated everything that interrupted―and hated going away. Quite humbly I say that I think I did understand, and was longing to tell you so. But I have never had the tongue of a ready speaker, and as I left your beautiful home I was choked with unspoken words a cleverer man would have found more quickly.
How much I wished I could have expressed myself. I wanted to say that I had no hateful curiosity, but only an overwhelming sympathy and desire for your confidence, a bedrock craving for your friendship. May I be your friend? May I? Or am I presuming on your kindness and too short an acquaintanceship?
Anyhow, I can't write on business, the contract is to go through with all your alterations.
Looking forward to the 24th, I need only sign,
Au revoir,
Yours very truly,
No. 12.211 Queen Anne's Gate, S.W.,
Dear Mr. Stanton:—
I don't know what to say about "The Musicians," that is why I have not already written to say it! I have not put the group into my collection, it is on my bedroom mantelpiece. I see it when I first wake in the morning, it is the last thing upon which my tired eyes rest before I turn off the light at night. Sometimes I think those musicians are playing the prelude to the friendship of which you speak.
