I'm writing you this letter because I expect to-night is a busy-packing
one with you. The picture is in my mind of you all. How splendid it is
of you to come! I never thought you would really, not even in my wildest
dream of optimism. There have been so many times when I scarcely thought
that I would ever see you again--now the unexpected and hoped-for
happens. It's ripping!

I've put in an application for special leave in case the ordinary leave
should be cut off. I think I'm almost certain to arrive by the 11th.
Won't we have a time? I wonder what we'll want to do most--sit quiet or
go to theatres? The nine days of freedom--the wonderful nine days--will
pass with most tragic quickness. But they'll be days to remember as long
as life lasts.

Shall I see you standing on the station when I puff into London--or will
it be Folkestone where we meet--or shall I arrive before you? I somehow
think it will be you who will meet me at the barrier at Charing Cross,
and we'll taxi through the darkened streets down the Strand, and back to
our privacy. How impossible it sounds--like a vision of heart's desire
in the night.

Far, far away I see the fine home-coming, like a lamp burning in a dark
night. I expect we shall all go off our heads with joy and be madder
than ever. Who in the old London days would have imagined such a nine
days of happiness in the old places as we are to have together.

God bless you, till we meet,
CON.