that I ran away—­an absurdly young thing to do at forty—­and I am writing to you in the train on my way to Scotland....  You see, Biddy, I quite suddenly saw myself growing old, saw all the arid years in front of me, and saw that it was a very dreadful thing to grow old caring only for the things of time.  It frightened me badly.  I don’t want to go in bondage to the fear of age and death.  I want to grow old decently, and I am sure one ought to begin quite early learning how.

  “’Clear eyes do dim at last
    And cheeks outlive their rose: 
    Time, heedless of the past,
    No loving kindness knows.’

Yes, and ‘youth’s a stuff will not endure,’ and ’golden lads and girls all must like chimney-sweepers come to dust.’  The poets aren’t at all helpful, for youth—­poor brave youth—­won’t listen to their warnings, and they seem to have no consolation to offer to middle age.

“The odd thing is that up to a week or two ago I greatly liked the life I led.  You said it would kill you in a month.  Was it only last May that you pranced in the drawing-room in Grosvenor Street inveighing against ‘the whole beastly show,’ as you called it—­the freak fashions, the ugly eccentric dances, the costly pageant balls, the shouldering, the striving, the worship of money, the gambling, the self-advertisement—­all the abject vulgarity of it?  And my set, the artistic, soulful literary set, you said was the worst of all:  you actually described the high-priestess as looking like a ’decomposing cod-fish,’ and added by way of a final insult that you thought the woman had a kind heart.

“And I laughed and thought the War had changed you.  It didn’t change me, to my shame be it said.  I thought I was doing wonders posing about in a head-dress at Red Cross meetings, and getting up entertainments, and even my neverceasing anxiety about you simply seemed to make me more keen about amusing myself.

“Do you remember a story we liked when we were children, The Gold of Fairnilee?  Do you remember how Randal, carried away by the fairies, lived contented until his eyes were touched with the truth-telling water, and then Fairyland lost its glamour and he longed for the old earth he had left, and the changes of summer and autumn, and the streams of Tweed and his friends?

“Is it, do you suppose, because we had a Scots mother that I find, deep down within me, that I am ‘full of seriousness’?  It is rather disconcerting to think oneself a butterfly and find out suddenly that one is a—­what?  A bread-and-butter fly, shall we say?  Something quite solid, anyway.

“As I say, I suddenly became deadly sick of everything.  I simply couldn’t go on.  And it was no use going burying myself at Bidborough or even dear Mintern Abbas; it would have been the same sort of trammelled, artificial existence.  I wanted something utterly different.  Scotland seemed to call to me—­not the Scotland we know, not the shooting, yachting, West Highland Scotland, but the Lowlands, the Borders, our mother’s countryside.