Sweetheart darling,
Once more the sun is shining, and once more there is a song in my heart, for didn’t the postman bring a letter from you this morning? Dear heart of mine those letters mean so much to me—you say the sweetest things. Only it would be so much nicer if I were where I could hear you say them.
From your description of the conveniences there you must have almost gone primitive. Did you have a blowout in the mattress? And has the shipment of domestic reinforcements arrived yet? Of course it isn’t nice having to put up with such inconveniences, but then it will only make things seem nicer when you are all nicely settled. Perhaps I could use the same line of reasoning about waiting until Sept. 25 or so, but there is a flaw somewhere, since I could never be made happier than I have already been with you; at least, not until that dear finger which wears the invisible symbol (and here is another for it) shall also wear a visible golden band. However, I mustn’t think too much of that or the time until next June will seem even more of an eternity than it is.
My work is going along about as usual. I’ve prepared crude ricinoleic acid by about 57 different methods, but have finally gotten to what promises to be a satisfactory one. If it will work O.K. the running of the other oils and their acids will be a rather simple matter.
Are you climbing lots of mountains now, or is the process of taking long walks still a painful one. I walked out from the Union Station the other night after Dr. West left. That is the most I’ve done in some weeks. I really should get into good physical condition this summer too. Guess I’m just plain lazy.
Wish you were here to see “Showboat,” which they say is the best of the season’s offerings. Bob Stephens and I are going to see it next Tuesday evening—it is playing for two weeks.
I must go down town, then get back to night clinic so shall stop until tomorrow. But the tomorrow will never come when I shall stop wanting to whisper to you,
Darling, I love you,
Harold