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L. M. has heard from Gwynne's that she is to come back as soon as possible. That being so, and I wishing to travel with her, I wired you as arranged to-day. I shall not be able to tell when we start, until I hear from Cook's as to what sort of chance we have of getting places in the Paris train. But, of course, I'll wire you as soon as anything definite occurs.

I feel (as you may imagine) on the wing already—oh, ever so on the wing!! And now just having sent your telegram and been to the mairie with it and so on, I feel very empty in the head, and it's hard to write. I'll calm down and be more fluent to-morrow. But to really have despatched my pigeon! Pretty thrilling! Don't let Rib answer. He'd say “She's all right,” and do us in the eye. I hope Rib does post me a card. I rather see him tagging along the Redcliffe Road with a ladder to prop against the pillar-box made of dead matches….

By the way, I am afraid the English colour ‘maroon’ was a corruption of the French marron. I've just thought of it. However, that is no reason why it should not be orange-tawny. But the English maroon—I had once a maroon sash I remember, and it was not gay.

It's such a vile day here—cold, dark, the sea almost red, very sinister, with bursts of thunder. And dogs are barking in the wrong way, and doors bang in the hotel, and all that is pale looks too white—blanched. I must get the idiot to give me a handful of wet leaves or so to light my fire with. And then I must try not to pack and repack my trunk for the rest of the evening (in my head, I mean). But you know the feeling. Think of it! No, I just can't. I wish the Channel wasn't between us. I am very frightened of being torpedoed. I'd be sure to sink, and oh, until I have been potted out and grown in a garden, I don't want to be either drowned or otherwise finitoed. So wear something crossed over your heart for a good omen. No, I can't write to-day. My heart is page 154 wrapped up in that telegram. I feel almost serious, too —anxious, you know.