28 February 1922

Victoria Palace Hotel, Paris

   I must end this letter. I have just finished a queer story called The Fly about a fly that fell into the ink pot and a Bank Manager. I think it will come out in The Nation. The trouble with writing is that one seethes with stories. One ought to write one a day at least - but it is so tiring. When I am well I shall live always far away in distant spots where one can work and look undisturbed. No more literary society for me ever. As for London - the idea is too awful. I shall sneak up to Pond Street every now and again - very rarely indeed & Ill beg you not to let a soul know. Its no joke my dear to get the letters I do from people who want to meet one. Its frightening!
   Don't leave me too long without letters. I have grown to look for you now and I cant do without you. Youre my friend. I miss you. See? Oh, one thing. When I do come will you ask the children to tea? I have had serious thoughts of adopting a little tiny Russian lately. In fact it is still in the back of my mind. It's a secret, though.
   Easter this year is April 16th. That is March and a bit away. Come April. Isn't it a divine word - and in all languages its so exquisite - Avril, Avrilo. What a name for a book - April!
   Forgive my writing. My hand is always stiff with work. Can you read it? Yours ever, dear little artist.
                          Tig.  [To Dorothy Brett, 26 February 1922.]

Dear Mrs Sarah Gertrude Millin
   Your letter makes me want to begin mine with "Do write again. Don't let this be your last letter. lf ever you feel inclined for a talk with a fellow-writer summon me." I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear from you, how interested I am to know about your work. Are you really going to send me a copy of Adam's Rest when it comes out? It would give me great pleasure to read it.
   Now I am walking through the third page of your letter. Yes I do think it is "desolate" not to know another writer. One has a longing to talk about writing sometimes, to talk things over, to exchange impressions, to find out how other people work - what they find difficult, what they really aim at expressing - countless things like that. But there's another side to it. Let me tell you my experience. I am a ‘Colonial'. I was born in New Zealand, I came to Europe to "complete my education" and when my parents thought that tremendous task was over I went back to New Zealand. I hated it. It seemed to me a small petty world, I longed for "my" kind of people and larger interests and so on. And after a struggle I did get out of the nest finally and came to London, at eighteen, never to return, said my disgusted heart. Since then Ive lived in England, France, Italy, Bavaria. Ive known literary society in plenty. [Early March, 1922.]