From sheer laziness I am sitting up in bed. The ‘I'eau chaude’ is warming its enamel bosom before a freshlighted fire, and I ought to be up—but it's so pleasant here and the smell of burning wood is so delicious and the sky and the sea outside are so pearly. After I had written to you yesterday down came the rain again, and this time the courier really was drowned, so I got a letter of yours about the landlady, etc., just this moment.

My rheumatism this morning—n'existe pas. I've not been so free for a year. I can positively jump. I'm to go on using the unguent and my Englishman is going to give me the prescription to-day for he leaves here on Monday. He is also going to conduct me to the post and see I'm not cheated with my mandat—so that is all to the good. I dined down stairs last night. A good many people have arrived—and the hotel is rather changed. More flowers, more fires and an ‘atmosphere.’ I met the ‘Madame’ on the stairs. Elle me demandait si je souffre toujours. I said no—said she “Heureusement le climat est très sec!” What a fool, with rain teeming on everything! I paid a bill here too which was a relief off my mind.

Dear, do send me summat to read when you can. I am still confined to Shakespeare and the Times. I don't know what to ask for. I'd like a I/- Dickens that I haven't read—or one I don't remember—but which is it? Oh, I'd like to read Oliver Twist again, for one. And I'll send you something for The Signature but don't flatter me—I'm only the jam in the golden pill—and I know my place, Betsy.

I have a presentiment that I shall never see Albion's shores again (but then I always feel like that when I'm away). Still, Bogey, in case I should be taken page 50 sudden preserve these words and show them to the landlady.

It is such a Sunday morning—so quiet and so tending towards la messe. The lovely air must be the result of the storm, I suppose, for breathing is a delight. It's what you might call very choice, this morning, too.

I should like to embrace my Father this morning. He would smell of fine cloth with a suspicion of cigar added, eau de cologne, just an atom of camphorated chalk, something of fresh linen and his own particular smell—his ‘blood smell’ as p'raps Lorenzo would say.