For some unaccountable reason I've got our Marseilles fever again with all its symptoms, loss of appetite, shivering fits, dysentry. What on earth can it be? I really think it is a noisome fever from some black man in a café near page 41 to the Vieux Port. At any rate its horrid and I am a ragged creature to-day. If I hadn't got William Shakespeare I should be in the ultimate cart, but he reads well to a touch of fever. However, I expect I shall be a better girl by the time you get this, so don't go and worry. I bought a most superior exercise book yesterday for 4 sous but at about five o'clock the eternal silence was broken by a rap at my door and a pretty creature with gold rings in her ears, spanish boots like yours, and flashing eyes and teeth brought in a basket—My laundry. I only sent a morsel— the veriest fragment, and Lord! there was a bill for 3.15. How the rings, the teeth, eyes and boots vanished—counting the precious money into her hand. I paid for them, every one. I shall have to cut myself a little pair of football shorts out of Le Radical, I can see that.

How are you? Where are you? What are you doing now? …

The salon has become impossible ground while the wife of that Englishman remains in this hotel. Did you remark her? She is a Belgian—I never met her like. She out-Belgians anything imaginable. However, I'll be even with her and put her to paper and be done with her. I shall creep to the post and back but that's my limit to-day. Otherwise I'll keep my room and try to write and read. Send me a book, when you can.