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I passed ‘our house’ ¹ again yesterday, and it looked so heavenly fair with the white and red almond trees and the mimosa attending that I went into a field hard by where they were gathering the flowers and asked for information. A big dark girl, with a great sheaf of flowers on one arm, and the other arm raised, keeping her face from the sun, said: “Ah, Madame, c'est une mauvaise maison. Non, elle pas louée. Le propriétaire habite Marseille. Mais, vous savez, la maison est ben mauvaise; elle se casse toujours. On a fait de grandes réparations, il y a un an, mais personne n'est venu pour la prendre. Et, main-tenant, elle est à moitié cassée encore. On dit de cette maison, qu'elle n' aime pas les gens.” And then she bent over the flowery fields again.

On my way home from my walk yesterday I met le père de Marthe. We shook hands. He was very nice—you remember, in a patent leather cap, rather like a drawing by Gus Bofa. Marthe is married and lives in Toulon. “Son mari est à Gibralte.” Yes, he was the young man who used to walk with her in the garden on Sunday. I said, “When you write, please remember me to her.” Said he, “J'écris tous les soirs. Vous savez, elle était ma seule fille.” This, of course, warmed my heart to an extraordinary degree, and I wished C. hadn't given me my furs so that I could have sent them to Marthe, etc., etc.

I worked a good deal yesterday, but I slept too. It's fatal for me to work late at night, when I am alone. I never realise unless I stop how screwed up I am. Last night, petit enfant très sage, I made myself another little ‘front’ out of material I bought here—you know the kind [drawing]—and it sent me into a fast sleep.

The widow here actually gave me two bunches of white hyacinths yesterday. What can it mean? They smell page 124 simply divine. And then Juliette still makes a garden of my room. I have to put the flowers on the window sill at night: elles sentent si fort. In the early morning when I wake and see the row of little pots so gentiment disposés I feel rather like the heroine of a German lyric poem. We must grow all varieties of jonquils.

Have you got your meat card? Of course, I think the meat cards will stop the war. Nothing will be done but spot-counting. And people will go mad, and butchers and pork butchers will walk about with bones in their hair, distracted. Talking of hair. Do you know those first days I was here I went a bit grey over both temples. Real grey hair—I know, I felt the very moment it came: but it is a blow to see it.

Another thing I hate the French bourgeoisie for is their absorbed interest in evacuation. What is constipating and what not? That is a real criterion…. Also the people of the village have a habit of responding to their serious needs (I suppose by night) down on the shore round the palm trees. Perhaps it's the sailors. But my English gorge rises and my English lips curl in contempt. The other day one palm-tree had a placard nailed on it “Chiens seulement.” Was that funny? It provided a haw-haw for the day here. But on my life, I'd almost rather, like that English lady, not know whether my husband went to the lavatory or not, than be so unbuttoned. No, this world, you know, this grown-up world everywhere, don't fit me.