16 June 1922

Hotel d'Angleterre, Montana-sur-Sierre, Switzerland

What is Waterlow saying about your Thursdays. He is a bit of a mischief maker. It is because of his Marge. I feel he is absolutely under her thumb and her mental plumbing is so very awful. I expect you will get all the latest gossip from G. I do not like those London people, dearest. Koteliansky is the only company I really want to see, ever again. There is something - a kind of superciliousness & silly suspicion mixed in the others which makes me turn from them. They are no worse than other city people. But that is not saying much is it? The truth is I don't want to discuss literature or art, as they do. I want to get on with it, and in leisure hours, live and love and enjoy the people I am with. Play, in fact. Play is a very necessary part of life.
   I must post this unsatisfactory letter. Its written as usual on my knee & so my writing has no backbone but is all wobbly like the handwriting of a fish. Forgive it. I still cough like billy-oh, and am short of puff and so on. The old story, in fact, just as it was when I was here before. But it don't signify, Miss Dombey.
   This all rushes along. But it's the surface. Underneath there is something steady, deep, and yours - my love for you. I too, feel we are only at the beginning. But already I have such memories of you to think over - moments, glances, words spoken and left unsaid. [To Dorothy Brett, 14 June 1922.]