This afternoon came your two letters. My pen—it's as though the ink flows through its veins again—just that. I will stay here then for the present. It is truly ideal—perfect room, bed, food, and all arranged for me and served so decently and punctually, perfect attendance. Also I think my young doctor is about the best I could possibly get anywhere. He's absolutely our generation, you see, tremendously keen on this business, and takes my case so intensely that A. now feels he's the only man who could have such a grasp of it. She won't let me move page 172 or open a window without just running round to the surgery and asking….

I confess I feel better to-day than I have for Months and I can breathe more easily. I have been up and out in the sun for half an hour. As soon as I am well enough the doctor is going to take me driving, on his rounds. But he won't let me drive at all yet or do anything but sit in the sun. “Wait now!” he says. “I can see the kind of woman you are. There's nothing but a pain like a knife that will put a stop to you.”

This place out in the sun to-day was a miracle of beauty. The sea and the coast line remind me curiously of New Zealand, and my old servant is like an old woman down the Pelorus Sounds. (My dream N. Z. and dream old woman, of course.)

A. has just brought me oranges and caramels and smiles and such a lovely flower picture.

“My dear,” she said. “The idea just came to me—sharp, like a bit in a plate, you see—This is the place for Mansfield!” Can't you hear her?

Don't send Lamb. But if I could have any anthology of English poetry, p. ex. A Pageant of English Poetry, or any other. At your leisure. No hurry.

I burn to review books. I shall do them well and promptly here and post the books back to you.

I'll write every day, of course, and tell you when I see more. I have only really opened my eyes wide after reading those two letters of yours.

I won't climb a hill without a permit.

Rib sends a kiss, and if you can find him some orange and white striped bathing drawers he'll be obliged.

I suppose Harrison won't take my story. ¹ Wish he would.

As to the Armenian cushion—I shall be known by it. I feel I'll never go out without it. It's so dark and bright and perfect. I can see people at the Heron taking page 173 cushions into the garden and our children saying, “No, you can't take that one. It's hers. He gave it to her.”

There is a haze on the sea to-day from the heat, and a slow rocking swell. The fishing boats have hung out the fine tarred nets between their two masts. They look very exquisite.

You see I am just like a plant revived by your letters. I have just had tea,—thin bread and butter, gooseberry jam, cream, and two fresh buns with Sugar on top. I must ask these people where they got the tea-pot. It's very beautiful.