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Yes, my mother's death is a terrible sorrow to me. I feel—do you know what I mean—the silence of it so. She was more alive than anyone I have ever known.

How are you? And are you going to the sea? Brett said you thought of it. Garsington must be divine in this weather, though. I hope that we shall see each other soon. I am longing to be in my new house—out of this common passage way—common door. I sit in front of these three windows and feel that I am sitting in a shop—with nothing whatever to sell. M. is, as usual, working a hundred times too hard—but he cannot stop himself and I cannot stop him. I can only look on and deplore it. However, like a little forlorn Ibsen hero the ‘miracle’ is going to happen for him when he gets into his new house. His study has lemon-yellow walls and orange curtains. I have an idea that I shall hang a parrot in it … as well.

Oh, I long for gaiety—for a high spirit—for gracious ways and kindness and happy love. Life without these is not worth living. But they must be. We have—the few of us—got wings—real wings—beauties—to fly with and not to always hide under—