here next week. I wish you could hear him. He was intending to go to
London this season and play with a special orchestra of picked players,
but has changed his mind. I asked him why, and he shrugged his
shoulder and said his agent, who arranges these things, seemed to think
he had better not. I asked him why again--you know my persistency--for
I can't conceive why it should be better not for London to have such a
joy and for him to give it, but he only shrugged his shoulder again,
and said he always did what his agent told him to do. "My agent knows
his business, my dear Mees Chrees," he said. "I put my affairs in his
hands, and having done so I obey him. It saves trouble. Obedience is
a comfortable thing."

"Then why--" I began, remembering the things he says about kings and
masters and persons in authority; but he picked up his violin and began
to play a bit. "See," he said, "this is how--"

And when he plays I can only stand and listen. It is like a spell.
One stands there, and forgets. . . .


_Evening_.

I've been reading your last darling letter again, so full of love, so
full of thought for me, out in a corner of the Thiergarten this
afternoon, and I see that while I'm eagerly writing and writing to you,
page after page of the things I want to tell you, I forget to tell you
the things you want to know. I believe I never answer _any_ of your
questions! It's because I'm so all right, so comfortable as far as my
body goes, that I don't remember to say so. I have heaps to eat, and
it is very satisfying food, being German, and will make me grow