I have been condemned to the sommier for the last few days, and not able to walk at all. There is nothing I should have loved more than to walk in your garden—othwerise.

But the King of the Hanky-Pankies is coming this morning to electrify me and I hope to have new legs—arms—wings—everything—in a week or two.

I can't go on like this; even a caterpillar would turn.

We leave here next Monday for:

2 Portland Villas,
East Heath Road,
Hampstead.

Portland Villas!—it sounds like one of those houses where a “few guests are taken slightly mental not objected to. Firm home-like treatment.”

But inside it is going to be a vision—a sort of spring perpetual with delicate little flowery poems on the top floor window boxes and short stories, very rich and gay on the first floor sills. In the garden ‘the Mountain’ dreams of African trees—violet trees covered with bunches of violets and assegai trees with leaves like spears. But I don't believe in them.

It's such a strange morning here—puffs of silver cloud blowing over the roofs and Indian gentlemen in mustard-coloured turbans prancing up and down the pavement, and now here's the electric man with his little box. He has a waxed moustache and we are beginning to ask if it is lumber or ribs. Oh dear!