As he gazed out on the Atlantic, the yearning for home, for the sandhills and the pine trees of North Carolina, again took possession of his soul.

Yet it is evident, from a miscellaneous group of letters written at this time, that his mind revelled in a variety of subjects, ranging all the way from British food and vegetables to the settlement of the war and from secret diplomacy to literary style.
_To Mrs.Charles G.Loring_ St.Ives, Cornwall, March 3, 1918.
DEAR KITTY: Your mother of course needed a rest away from London after the influenza got done with her; and I discovered that I had gone stale.

So she and I and the golf clubs came here yesterday--as near to the sunlit land of Uncle Sam as you can well get on this island.
We look across the ocean--at least out into it--in your direction, but I must confess that Labrador is not in sight.

The place is all right, the hotel uncommonly good, but it's Greenlandish in its temperature--a very cold wind blowing.

The golf clubs lean up against the wall and curse the weather.