passive help, if you understand what I mean. I've got to be
up and doing myself--actively; to be merely any man's echo--his
complement--however much I loved him, would not be enough. I've come
to that, you see.

And so I've decided--not quite definitely as I said, but almost so--to
read for Medicine. I'm a little old, perhaps, though I'm only
twenty-four: but these years in France have at any rate not been
wasted. The question of money does not come in luckily, and the work
attracts me immensely. Somehow I feel that I might be helping to
repair a tiny bit of the hideous destruction and mutilation which we're
suffering from now.

And that's enough about myself. I want to suggest something to you.
You may laugh, old boy--but I'm in earnest. I remember you're telling
me once that, when you were up at the 'Varsity, you used to scribble a
bit. I didn't pay much attention; in those days one didn't pay
attention--ever. But now your words have come back to me once or
twice, during the night, when I've been seeing dream pictures in my
reading lamp and the ward has been asleep. Have you thought that
possibly that is the line along which you might develop? Don't you
think it's worth trying, Derek? And then, perhaps--this is my wildest
dream, the raving of a fevered brain--the day will come when you and I
can stand together and realise that each of us in our own way has made
good--has done something to help on--_les autres_. Oh! Derek--it's
worth trying, old man--surely it's worth trying. We've just got to do
something that's worth while, before we come to the end--if only to
balance a little of the hideous mass of worthlessness that's being
piled up to-day. . . .

Don't bother to answer this, as I know you find writing difficult. I
hope to be getting some leave soon: we can have a talk then. How goes
the arm? _A toi, mon cheri_.

MARGARET.

PS.--There's rather a dear man living fairly close to Rumfold, old Sir
James Devereux. His house is Blandford--a magnificent old place;
almost if not quite as fine as Rumfold, and the grounds are bigger.
His wife died when the son was born, and I rather think there is a
daughter, but she was away at a finishing school when I knew them, Go
over and call; from what I heard there's a distinct shortage of
money--at least of enough to keep the place going.

P.PS.--He's not really old--about only fifty. Say you know Daddy; they
used to shoot together.

With something