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DEAR KEN,

I have been sitting by the window of my apartment—it is a bleak day and London is not inspiring on bleak days. The chill has been penetrating and the gas log is blue and gold. It occurs to me, as I watch a little bird, a starling, I think—that I am very calm, very contented.

I've been a long time over here—unconsciously I ape the London manner of speaking and writing. It gets into the bones, this city. Large and clammy in the winter but, if you trust yourself to the out-of-doors, heartily sound and comforting all the same, if you have sense to shut windows and light fires. As the months pass, I do the correct London things. I become more and more suited to this England. America, as I think I told you so many times, is disturbing. Too wide, too open, too conglomerate. Of course, New York is not. One can, you know, be rather happy in New York. Here, where one is unquestionably what one is, whether a clerk, an Earl, the propellor of a char-à-banc, or a composer of popular tunes, everyone is substantial. This feeling of being rooted in firm soil quiets me. Too, distance from you, from your unaccountably deep moods, has relieved my emotions. Because, you may be sure now, you communicated your unrest to me. I was a little wild-eyed those last weeks. I admit it. Your idea of my coming here at once was splendid. Thanks, old dear.

Thanks, indeed, but not for one kind word. I know