Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost.
Life would split asunder without them.

"Come to tea, come to dinner, what's the truth of the story?
have you heard the news?
life in the capital is gay; the Russian dancers...." These are our stays and props.
These lace our days together and make of life a perfect globe.

And yet, and yet ...

when we go to dinner, when pressing finger-tips we hope to meet somewhere soon, a doubt insinuates itself; is this the way to spend our days?
the rare, the limited, so soon dealt out to us--drinking tea?
dining out?
And the notes accumulate.

And the telephones ring.