M[y] D[ear] M[abel]

I had meant to write often but things are impossible. Everything has gone splendidly in one way but our interior economy is a continual muddle. You will have seen news in the papers. We have a continual series of meals - meals that last anything from two to four hours. You can imagine how I enjoy it. Everyone is very charming. But the strain of politeness, good behaviour and over eating tell on one. Arrangements at present mean that I get back to Dublin on Friday night. It is always possible that I may be delayed. We change (or rather our plans are changed) several times a day. I have not seen much of Geneva. On Saturday we went for lunch to a Mrs MacCormack of Chicago - she has a chateau at Nyon. Of course I was furious at being let in for another meal. But it was actually very pleasant. The lady was versed in Dawson and knew a certain amount about glandular secretions. That made conversation easy. Asked her if she knew Miss Cramer and it appeared that she did. Mr Cramer (now married) was at Nyon a few days before. She asked me if I had heard of Vincent O'Sullivan. I of course was able to give his full literary history. There were a great many people at the lunch, but it was arranged so sensibly that it didn't pall. Several tables instead of one long one.

Our dinners at night go on till somewhere about midnight. If possible after that I slip off with Diarmuid to what I might call the Geneva Reaton's, it is quite pleasant as there are always people to talk to and an occasional life history.

That is about all here. I should like to know how things are at home. How children got on in North. Is Gladys still there.1 Any news from my people?¹ I hope to see them on way back. Arrangement now is that we are due to arrive in London about 7:15pm and leave by morning train. So I might be able to run down in the evening if there is not some confusion amongst us. I am writing this in the League. Every speech is translated into the other language. Very wearisom.