Greenmantle

To
Caroline Grosvenor

During the past year, in the intervals of an active life, I have amused myselfwith constructing this tale. It has been scribbled in every kind of odd placeand moment—in England and abroad, during long journeys, in half-hoursbetween graver tasks; and it bears, I fear, the mark of its gipsy begetting.But it has amused me to write, and I shall be well repaid if it amusesyou—and a few others—to read.

Let no man or woman call its events improbable. The war has driven that wordfrom our vocabulary, and melodrama has become the prosiest realism. Thingsunimagined before happen daily to our friends by sea and land. The one chancein a thousand is habitually taken, and as often as not succeeds. Coincidence,like some new Briareus, stretches a hundred long arms hourly across the earth.Some day, when the full history is written—sober history with ampledocuments—the poor romancer will give up business and fall to readingMiss Austen in a hermitage.

The characters of the tale, if you think hard, you will recall. Sandy you knowwell. That great spirit was last heard of at Basra, where he occupies the postthat once was Harry Bullivant’s. Richard Hannay is where he longed to be,commanding his battalion on the ugliest bit of front in the West. M

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