I get your answer--somehow I feel it'll _be_ "yes"--I'll
send you a draft on a London bank to pay for a suitable
trousseau and your passage from London to Cape Town, and _of
course_ I'll come and meet you there, where we can be
married. I shan't sleep properly till I get your "yes."

Your ever loving and always faithful
FRANK.

P.S. There's a poor fellow here in the same ward dying--I
should say--of necrosis of the jaw--Vavasour Williams is his
name or a part of his name. His father was at Cambridge with
my old man, and--isn't it rum?--he was a pupil of
_Praddy's_!! He mucked his school and 'varsity career,
thought next he'd like to be an architect or a scene
painter. My dad recommended Praddy as a master. He worked in
the Praed studio, but got the chuck over some foolery. Then
as he couldn't face his poor old Governor, he enlisted in
the Bechuanaland Border police, came out to South Africa and
got let in for this show. The doctors and nurses give him
about a month and he doesn't know it. He can't talk much
owing to his jaw being tied up--usually he writes me
messages, all about going home and being a good boy, turning
over a new leaf, and so on. I suppose the last person you
ever see nowadays is the Revd. Sam Gardner? You know they
howked him out of Woodcote? He got "preferment" as he calls
it, and a cure of souls at Margate. Rather rough on the dear
old mater--bless her, _always_--She so liked the Hindhead
country. But if you run up against Praddy you might let him
know and he might get into touch with Vavasour Williams's