Juliette is like a double stock—tufty, strong, very sweet, very gay. Yesterday she helped me wash my hair. Every service she makes a kind of ‘party.’ It was fun to heat and stagger in with two huge pots of water—to warm towels and keep them hot in folded newspapers—and the success of the operation was hers, too. She rejoiced over one's dry hair and ran away singing down the corridor. She sings nearly always as she works, and she has a friend, Madeleine, who pegs the linen on the line between the mimosa trees. When J. is doing the rooms M. calls from the garden, “Juli-et-te!” And Juliette flies to the window. “Ah-hé! C'est toi, ma belle!”

What an enormous difference it makes to have her about rather than some poor foggy creature—or some badtempered one. But she could never be transplanted. She rises and sets with the sun, I am sure.