having consideration for the day, because I think Ravel being played on
it can't do Sunday anything but good, but I did mind having disturbed
the other people in the flat. I could only say I was sorry, and
wouldn't do it again,--just like an apologetic schoolgirl. But what do
you think I wanted to do, little mother? Run to Frau Berg, and put my
arms round her neck, and tell her I was lonely and wanting you, and
would she mind just pretending she was fond of me for a moment? She
did look so comfortable and fat and kind, standing there filling up the
doorway, and she wasn't near enough for me to see her eyes, and it is
her eyes that make one not want to run to her.

But of course I didn't run. I knew too well that she wouldn't
understand. And indeed I don't know why I should have felt such a
longing to run into somebody's arms. Perhaps it was because writing to
you brings you so near to me that I realize how far away you are.
During the week I work, and while I work I forget; and there's the
excitement of my lessons, and the joy of hearing Kloster appreciate and
encourage. But on Sundays the day is all you, and then I feel what
months can mean when they have to be lived through each in turn and day
by day before one gets back to the person one loves. Why are you so
dear, my darling mother? If you were an ordinary mother I'd be so much
more placid. I wouldn't mind not being with an ordinary mother. When
I look at other people's mothers I think I'd rather like not being with
them. But having known what it is to live in love and understanding
with you, it wants a great deal of persistent courage, the sort that
goes on steadily with no intervals, to make one able to do without it.

Now please don't think I am fretting, will you, because I'm not. It's
only that I love you. We're such _friends_. You always understand,
you are never shocked. I can say whatever comes into my head to you.