[52 Tavistock Square, W.C.1]

Friday [18 June 1926]

This is only a scribble to catch the post. Yes, Clive has been here, but no mischief made, though many 
questions asked.

I'm sorry about your mother: what did the dr. say? and about your despondency. But that may be 
circumstances, and about Sybil and the bad impression I made, and about the rats and the doves. Ever since you 
drove off, I've been talking—oh, and had one declaration of love; and Wells—but no: I won't repeat any more 
great mens compliments (of course, I shall; dozens of times over)

"Among younger writers are Miss Violet Sackville West, whose Grey Wethers, strong in conception and 
austere in treatment, has moments of almost epic splendour." (Modern English Fiction by Gerald Bullet) This I 
happen to light on, and have a thrill of jealousy.

Otherwise, I'm well disposed towards you, and if I should see a chance of coming down for a night say 
Thursday, should I suggest it? Anyhow write a long account of Sunday. I see Clive's primed with questions: 
blurted out, had I read you his letter at Rodmell? So beware: dont blush: dont lead me to think you've 
compromised your virtue among the cedars. Yes, I do write damned well sometimes, but not these last days, 
when I've been slogging through a cursed article, and see my novel [To the Lighthouse] glowing like the Island 
of the Blessed far far away over dismal wastes, and cant reach land.

Now Lottie is coming for this.
Never talk about my health again.
Did yours culminate in the bloody flux, or whatever its called? Are you feeling better for it?
Aint it odd that in Oct. 1922 you were still Nicolson with a aitch.


Shall you come through London on Monday?
Anyhow, dine, tea, Friday.