January 21, 1909 KITEBROOK,
My dearest Robin,
There does not seem much to tell you this week. Nothing of any moment has occurred in the neighborhood. I went to Pomfret Castle on Monday and we had a fairly good day, but I had a weary ride home from Teddington, about seventen miles–the first ten with Victor Johnson with occasional interludes with Cicely and Audrey Fenwick. I started with Mr. Lockwood, a friend of his, and Victor. They announced their intention of getting gruel for their horses in Teddington so I thought I should slip them by coming straight on, but Victor didn’t seem to think his steed was thirstily inclined so came on with me. It bores me very much to have a long ride home with someone I don’t know very well.
Yesterday we met at Stow Station and had a hopeless day, which was a horrid disappointment as we look upon it as one of our best meets. There was no scent and it had been a pretty sharp frost the night before, which made it very bad going as it didn’t give much all day. It froze again last night and doesn’t look much like hunting at Moreton tomorrow, but it’s only a white frost so I suppose it won’t last.
I rode Utility for nearly three hours on Tuesday. He goes quite sound but sometimes the shoulder seems to give a little. I hope he will be fit to hunt the beginning of next month. He was awfully fresh and bounced all over the place if a bird flew out of the hedge. Geoff’s mare is still very bad but the vet thinks she is going to live now, which is something. Reggie and I are going to our postponed dinner with Mrs. Godman on Saturday to meet the Wittses who will be spending the weekend there.
I got another letter [Robin–December 31, 1908] from you a day or two ago saying you were still waiting for an answer from me. You will have got it by now so I am not going to say any more, only “thank you” for telling me all you have done. I know how hard it must have been for you and it would have been so easy just to let it slide and say nothing. Is the girl still at Kelowna? I suppose I shall know her when I come out. I hope she won’t hate me very much, for somehow I shouldn’t like that, though I don’t as a rule care much whether people like me or not, unless I am really fond of them.
Well, I must stop. Roderic will be here directly to play Joyce’s two new valses to me. I expect they have not reached you yet. One, Songe d’Automne, is almost nicer than Chanson de mon Coeur. The other I have not heard yet.