That doctor is coming to-morrow, so I'll tell you what he says. He is a most awful fool, I am sure, but still I suppose he is a doctor, and that's a comfort. One thing he says, this south coast is no use for me—too relaxing—and I ought to have sat on a mountain. Fatal to stay here later than March. Well, that's perhaps true. I think it is, for every time the wind blows I shut up all my petals—even if it's only a breeze….

I feel chirpy to-night. I don't care what happens, what pain I have, what I suffer, so long as my handkerchiefs don't look as though I were in the pork-butcher trade. That does knock your Wig flat, flat, flat. I feel as though the affair were out of my control then and that it's a nightmare. Last night was like that for me. Then this afternoon, when I sat reading Keats in the sun, I coughed and it wasn't red and I felt inclined to wave the fact to the whole world….

No, to be in England, to see you, to see a good lung specialist—that's my affair and no other. But to be on alien shores with a very shady medicine man and a crimson lake hanky is about as near Hell as I want to be.