It is a brilliant bright day. The flowers against the sea flash and quiver with light. This house is full of roses: every jar, pot, spare glass has its share. Even the sauceboat has a little cargo with their heads over the sides and their leaves trailing in the mer imaginaire. I am going off to San Remo this afternoon if it stays fine just to have a look at the gay world and to take the acid to the chemist. I ought to unwrap it and take just the bottle for I want the box. On the other hand I'd like him to see the seals just for him to know what an important person I am…. You're shocked?

I sent off a review on Thursday night. Is it all right? This copy of Eve is really too degraded. I wonder if Vogue is like it. It is written by imbeciles for degenerates. One gets so fastidious—oh, I don't just know what it is—living alone on a wild hillside. At any rate, what they call the ‘semi-demi’ shocks me no end. I suppose there are a great many women who care for this sort of thing or it wouldn't be produced. It's positively foul and filthy. I do shrink from this world and its ways.

Yes, it's a beautiful day to-day, an opal. I am so looking forward to San Remo—to lose myself for a bit and page 293 watch the people and perhaps the china will have come. I long to send you the superb fresh dried figs. L. M. is making enquiries about them to-day….

With my meals I am drinking The Winter's Tale. It's again one of my favourites. It's simply marvellous.