[52 Tavistock Square, W.C.1]

Friday [15 January 1926]

Dearest Creature,

I saw Clive yesterday, who says will you and Leonard and I dine with him on Monday at the Ivy? If you 
cant, (as I fear) come to his rooms as soon as you can—We will come at 10.30, but I suppose I shan't be allowed 
to stay late.

Would you write a line (50,000 lines) to me on the matter, and I'll let him know.
Now, he is a damned good fellow isn't he? He was as red as a lion and as sweet as honey yesterday, and 
so raved, with such warmth and emotion, about you, that my heart was touched.* Oddly enough, he bagged one 
of my phrases for you—said you "glowed"—"a brilliant human being", "after Mary and Virginia the woman he 
would miss most". This brought us to the following petition: that you shall not go back to Persia in the autumn. 
For it can be proved to cause more pain than pleasure. As a poet you'll have sucked all that Persia has to give: 
whats six weeks with Harold to him compared with 4 months without you to us? And so on.

I got up and went out yesterday into the loveliest spectral world, all white, and with one or two lights. 
Then, round the Square came an eternal procession of funerals (so it seemed) walking, covered with white 
flowers. Only the burial of a Churchwarden I suppose, but more august than I can say. The Dr says I'm ever so 
much better than before Christmas. Did I have a thorough rest when I was away? So I said it was Long Barn; 
Early hours: lack of exciting conversation: Staying with the aristocracy in short. "Ah I see: good food and no 
mental or physical strain."

What else is there? I must stop and try to polish off my lecture [How Should One Read a Book?]; and 
tomorrow begin the novel, and send my bed back and resume my struggle with the world—Oh and Vita won't be 
here next week to adulterate it—you know what I mean—Its a word I can't find at the moment.

The party went off. Lady [Margot] Oxford was refused admittance by Molly MacCarthy. I like the 
barbarous incivility and independence of Bloomsbury manners. Mrs Courthauld was also outed. So they kept 
themselves to themselves; and got tipsy.

Here's Roger ringing up to ask me to go to the Sargent show: Doris Daglish wanting to see us: "a little 
work would keep me from using my writing in a degrading way" and so on.

But I'm rather spoilt, and want Vita; and not Roger: and not Doris: and not Mary: and not nobody else.

What time will you come on Monday? dearest Creature?

Now though this has been written, by the glare of the snow, sitting up in bed, in precisely 10 minutes for 
the cook to post when she goes to buy a dish of meat, it is not a dumb letter. Dogs letters are.

Yr VW.

* He gave me his version of the conversation at Sherclos: [?]