"Your father is slowly recovering. But he will never sit his
saddle again, dear. Don't expect it; the war is over as far as he
is concerned. But never have my eyes beheld such happiness, such
gratitude, such adoration as I see in his eyes when your letters
come. I think the burden of his conversation is you. I never hear
him speak of anything else. Your father walks now; and by the time
you are here he will be able to drive on Fifth Avenue and in the
new Central Park. But he is not the man who left this city at the
head of his regiment. His hair and moustache are white as snow;
there are a thousand tiny wrinkles on his hands and features. All
that heavy colour is gone; only a slight flush remains on his thin
face. He is very handsome, Phil. Once, never dreaming of what was
true, I thought he resembled you. Do you recollect my saying so
once? Even you would recognise the likeness now. He is absorbed,
wrapped up in you. . . . I can see, now, that he always has been.
How blind we are! How blind!
"Celia, the darling, has not changed one particle. She is the
prettiest thing you ever saw, cheerful, clever, courageous,
self-possessed, devoted to Stephen, whose leave has been extended
and who plays the role of a pale and interesting invalid hero with
placid satisfaction to himself, adored and hovered over by Paige
and Marye and all their girl friends.
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