been ten letters that I absolutely _must_ write, thirty which I _ought_
to write, and fifty which any other person in my position _would_ have
written. Probably I have written two. After all, when your profession
is writing, you have some excuse on returning home in the evenings for
demanding a change of occupation. No doubt if I were a coal-heaver by
day, my wife would see to the fire after dinner while I wrote letters.
As it is, she does the correspondence, while I gaze into the fire and
think about things.

You will say, no doubt, that this was all very well before the War, but
that in the Army a little writing would be a pleasant change after the
day's duties. Allow me to disillusion you. If, three years ago, I ever
conceived a glorious future in which my autograph might be of value to
the more promiscuous collectors, that conception has now been shattered.
Three years in the Army has absolutely spoilt the market. Even were
I revered in the year 2,000 A.D. as SHAKSPEARE is revered now, my
half-million autographs, scattered so lavishly on charge-sheets, passes,
chits, requisitions, indents and applications would keep the price at a
dead level of about ten a penny. No, I have had enough of writing in
the Army and I never want to sign my own name again. "Yours sincerely,
HERBERT ASQUITH," "Faithfully yours, J. JELLICOE"--these by all means;
but not my own.

However, I wrote a letter the other day; it was to the bank. It informed
them that I had arrived in London for a time and should be troubling
them again shortly, London being to all appearances an expensive place.
It also called attention to my new address--a small furnished flat in
which Celia and I can just turn round if we do it separately. When
it was written, there came the question of posting it. I was all for
waiting till the next morning, but Celia explained that there was