Dearest Daphne,—­The scarcity of paper isn’t altogether an unmixed misfortune, as far as one’s correspondence is concerned.  Letters that don’t matter, letters from the insignificant and the boresome, simply aren’t answered.  For small spur-of-the-moment notes to one’s intimes who’re not too far off, there’s quite a little feeling for using slates.  One writes what one’s to say on one’s slate (which may be just as dilly a little affair as you please, with plain or chased silver frame, enamelled monogram or coronet, and pencil hanging by a little silver chain), and sends it by a servant.  When the note’s been read, it’s wiped off, the answer written, and the slate brought back. Isn’t that fragrant?  I may claim to have set this fashion.  Of course a very voyant slate is not just-so.  The Bullyon-Boundermere woman set up one with a deep, heavily-chased gold frame, and “B.-B.” at the top set with big diamonds. C’est bien elle! She’d used it only half-a-dozen times when it was snatched from her footwoman, who was taking it to somebody’s house, and hasn’t been heard of since!

People Who Matter gave a double-page to illustrating “War-Time Correspondence Slates of Social Leaders.” My slate’s there, and Stella Clackmannan’s, and Beryl’s and several more.  A propos, have you seen the series of “Well-known War-Workers” they’ve been having lately in People Who Matter?  They’re really quite worth while.  There’s dear Lala Middleshire in one of those charming “Olga” trench coats (khaki face-cloth lined self-coloured satin and with big, lovely, gilt-and-enamelled buttons), high brown boots, and one of those saucy little Belgian caps with a distracting little tassel wagging in front.  The pickie is called “The Duchess of Middleshire Takes a War-Worker’s Lunch,” and dear Lala is shown standing by a table, looking so bravely at two cutlets, a potato, a piece of war bread, a piece of war cheese and a small pudding.

Then there’s Hermione Shropshire, in a perfectly haunting lace and taffetas morning robe, with a clock near her (marked with a cross) pointing to eight o’clock! (She lets her maid dress her at that hour now, so that the girl may go and make munitions.) And Edelfleda Saxonbury is shown in an evening gown, wearing her famous pearls.  She’s leaning her chin on her hand and gazing with a sweet wistful look at an inset view of the hostel where she’s washed plates and cups quite several times.

And last but not least there’s a pickie that the journalist people have dubbed, “Distinguished Society Women distinguish themselves as Carpenters,” et voila Beryl, Babs and your Blanche, in delicious cream serge overall things, with hammers, planes, and saws embroidered in crewels on the big square collars and turn-up cuffs, and enormously becoming carpenter’s caps, looking at a rest-hut we’ve just finished.  Oh, my dearest and best, you don’t