11 o'clock I, who am acting as wardrobe-mender to some very untidy
clothes and socks, get to work, and the young men go to the town and
appear at lunch-time. We hear what the local news is, and what Mr.
MacMurray has said and Mr. McLean thought, and sometimes one of the
people from the Russian hospital comes in. About 3 we put on goloshes
and take exercise single-file on the pathways cut in the snow. At 5 the
samovar appears and tea and cake, and we talk to the dogs and to each
other. We dress for dinner, because that is our creed; and we burn a
good deal of wood, and go to bed early.

Travel really means movement. Otherwise, it is far better to stay at
home. I am beginning to sympathise with the Americans who insist upon
doing two cities a day. We got some papers to-day dated October 26th,
and also a few letters of the same date.

* * * * *

[Page Heading: UNFINISHED ARTICLE ON PERSIA]

_Unfinished Article on Persia found among Miss Macnaughtan's papers._

Persia is a difficult country to write about, for unless one colours the
picture too highly to be recognisable, it is apt to be uninteresting
even under the haze of the summer sun, while in wintertime the country
disappears under a blanket of white snow. Of course, most of us thought
that Persia was somewhere in the tropics, and it gives us a little shock
when we find ourselves living in a temperature of 8 degrees below zero.
The rays of the sun are popularly supposed to minimise the effect of
this cold, and a fortnight's fog on the Persian highlands has still left
one a believer in this phenomenon, for when the sun does shine, it does
it handsomely, and, according to the inhabitants, it is only when
strangers are here that it turns sulky. Be that as it may, the most
loyal lover of Persia will have to admit that Persian mud is the deepest
and blackest in the world, and that snow and mud in equal proportions to
a depth of 8 inches make anything but agreeable travelling. Snow is
indiscriminately shovelled down off the roofs of houses on to the heads
of passers-by, and great holes in the road are accepted as the
inevitable accompaniment to winter traffic.

In the bazaars--narrow, and filled with small booths, where Manchester
cotton is stacked upon shelves--the merchants sit huddled up on their
counters, each with a cotton lahaf (quilt) over him, under which is a
small brazier of ougol (charcoal). In this way he manages to remain in a