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Now do write me a nice long letter, Thankyou, because I feel very miserable about this. It is right, isn’t it, when you have the right leg out, only to bring the left one just up to it, and not beyond? And does it matter which foot you start with? Let me know quickly, because Father is coming home to-morrow and I want to show him.

Your loving.
O.D.

P.S.–I am glad you like your pianola

IV

Dear O.D.,–Very glad to get yours. If you really want a long letter, you shall have one; only I warn you that if once I begin nothing less than any earthquake can stop me. Well, first, then, I played the Merry Widow Waltz yesterday to Mrs. Polacca, who is a great authority on music, and in with all the Queen’s Hall set, and she said that my touch reminded her of–I’ve forgotten the man’s name now, which is rather sickening, because it spoils the story a bit, but he was one of the real tiptoppers who makes hundreds a week, and well, that was the sort of man I reminded her of. If I can do that with a waltz, it stands to reason that with something classic there’d be no holding me. I think I shall give a recital. Tickets 10/6d. No free seats. No emergency exit. It is a great mistake to have an emergency exit at a recital.

(Three pages omitted.)

Really, O.D., you must hear me doing the double F in the Boston Cake Walk to get me at my best. You’ve heard Kubelik on the violin? Well, it’s not a bit like that, and yet there’s just the something which links great artists together, no matter what their medium of expression.

Your loving,
~Thankyou.~

P.S.–Glad you’re getting on so well with your walking.

V

Dearest Thankyou,–Hooray, hooray, hooray–I did twenty-five walks to-day! Father counted. He says my style reminds him of “Cancer Vulgaris” rather. How many times can he do it? Not twenty-five on the third day, I’m sure.

Isn’t it splendid of me? I see now where I was wrong yesterday. I got the knack again suddenly this morning, and I’m all right now. To-morrow I shall walk round the table. It is a longish way and there are four turns, which I am not sure about. How do you turn? I suppose you put the right hand out?

Your very loving.
O.D.

VI

Dear O.D.,–I am rather hurt by your letters. I have written several times to tell you all about my new pianola, and you don’t seem to take any interest at all. I was going to have told you this time that the man in the flat below had sent me a note, just as if it had been a real piano. He says he doesn’t mind my playing all day, so long as I don’t start before eight in the morning, as he is in his bath then, and in listening to the music quite forgets to come out sometimes, which I can see might be very awkward.

Write to yours affectionately,
~Thankyou.~

VII

Darling Thankyou,–I am so sorry, dear, and I will come and hear your pianola to-morrow, and I think it lovely, and you must be clever to play it so well; but you musn’t be angry with me because I am so taken up with my walking. You see, it is all so new to me. I feel as though I want everybody to know all about it.

Your pianola must be lovely, Thankyou. Dear Thankyou, could you, do you think, put all the letters we wrote to each other about my walking in some book, so that other people would know how to do it the way I do? You might call it “Letters on Walking,” or “How to Walk,” or–but you could get a better title than I could. Do!

Your very loving,
O.D.

P.S.–I’m so glad about the pianola and do you mind if I just tell you that I did walk round the table, corners and all?

VIII

Dearest O.D.,–Right you are. I will think of a good title.

Your loving,
~Thankyou.~