I am so sorry, we cannot come to Garsington. I am leaving London again on Friday for—I don't know in the least how long—and Murry is tied by every leg to his office stool. The country must be divine. I am going to Looe which is full of pigs and bluebells, cabbages and butterflies and fishermen's orange shirts flung out to dry on pink apricot trees. It sounds un printemps bien solide!

Life feels to me so full at present—simply charged with marvellous exciting things. Is it the spring that won't be denied even at my age?

Yes, I know that God is a monster and there are moments when one realises the war, but there are other moments when one rebels in spite of oneself and then—the floodgates are open and one is swept away on this heavenly tide. Do you feel that—or do you think I'm too heartless? But what is to be done? How can one remain calm when even the barrel organ seems to put forth new leaves and buds and laburnum is in full flower on the Redcliffe Road. It is all—as M. would say—too difficult.