The house is very quiet to-day. It is your mother's birthday, and you three children have gone with her and Mademoiselle Potin into the forest to celebrate the occasion. Presently I shall join you. The sunlit garden, with its tall dreaming lilies against the trellised vines upon the wall, the and the space about the sundial, have that stillness, that definite, palpable and almost outlined emptiness which is so to speak your negative presence. It is like a sheet of sunlit colored paper out of which your figures have been cut. There is a of birds in the jasmine, and your Barker reclines with an infinite , a masterless dog, upon the lawn. I take up this writing again after an of some weeks. I have been in Paris, attending the Conference, and with those intricate puzzles of justice and discipline and the secret sources of contentment that have to be solved if sabotage is ever to vanish from struggles again. I think a few points have been made clearer in that curious of ....  
Now I resume this story. I turn over the sheets that were written and finished before my departure, and come to the notes for what is to follow.
 
Perhaps my days of work in Paris have carried my mind on beyond the point at which I left the . I sit as it were among a pile of memories that are now all disordered and mixed up together, their proper sequences and connexions lost. I cannot trace the phases through which our passion rode up through the restrained and intentions of our friendship. But I know that presently we were in a white heat of desire. There must have been passages that I now altogether forget, moments of tense............