Your father has been so sweet; everybody has been good to me--Celia, poor little Camilla, and Stephen.

I know that they all write to you; and somehow I have been listlessly contented to let them tell you about home matters, and wait until my strength returned.

But you must not doubt where every waking memory of mine has centred; my thoughts have circled always around that central vortex from which, since I first laid eyes on you, they have never strayed.
"Home news is what all good soldiers want; I write for you all I know: "The city is the same hot, noisy, dirty, dusty, muddy, gridiron, changed in nowise except that everywhere one sees invalid soldiers; and there are far too many officers lounging about, presumably on furlough--too many Captain Dash's, twirling black moustaches in front of fashionable hotels.

There are no powder stains on their uniforms, no sun-burn on their cheeks.

They throng the city; and it is a sinister phenomenon.
"I think Broadway was never as lively, never quite as licentious.
Those vivid cafes, saloons, concert halls, have sprung up everywhere; theatres, museums, gardens are in full blast; shops are crowded, hotels, street cars, stages overflowing with careless, noisy, overdressed people.