n't fashed, and the Shah must do wanting me for the present.

The flowers here are just like England, primroses and violets and Lent
lilies, but I'm sure the trees are further out at home.

Your most loving
AUNT SALLY.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Keays-Young._

BRITISH LEGATION, TEHRAN,
_8 April._

DEAREST BABY,

I don't think I'll get home till quite the end of April, as I am not
supposed to be strong enough to travel yet. My journey begins with a
motor drive of 300 miles over fearful roads and a chain of mountains
always under snow. Then I have to cross the lumpy Caspian Sea, and I
shall rest at Baku two nights before beginning the four days journey to
Petrograd. After that the fun really begins, as one always loses all
one's luggage in Finland, and one finishes up with the North Sea. What
do you think of that, my cat?

[Page Heading: CONVALESCENCE]

Dr. Neligan is still looking after me quite splendidly, and I never
drank so much medicine in my life. No fees or money can repay the dear
man.

Tehran is _the_ most primitive place! You can't, for instance, get one
scrap of flannel, and if a bit of bacon comes into the town there is a
stampede for it. People get their wine from England in two-bottle
parcels.

Yours as ever,
S.

* * * * *

_Tehran. April._--The days pass peacefully and even quickly, which is
odd, for they are singularly idle. I get up about 11 a.m., and am pretty
tired when dressing is finished. Then I sit in the garden and have my
lunch there, and after lunch I lie down for an hour. Presently tea
comes; I watch the Neligans start for their ride, and already I wonder
if I was ever strong and rode!

It is such an odd jump I have taken. At home I drifted on, never feeling
older, hardly counting birthdays--always brisk, and getting through a
heap of work--beginning my day early and ending it late. And now there
is a great gulf dividing me from youth and old times, and it is filled
with dead people whom I can't forget.

In the matter of dying one doesn't interfere with Providence, but it
seems to me that _now_ would be rather an appropriate time to depart. I
wish I could give my life for some boy who would like to live very much,
and to whom all things are joyous. But alas! one can't swop lives like
this--at least, I don't see the chance of doing so.

I should like to have "left the party"--quitted the feast of life--when
all was