I love to think you are going to the Ballet, and I wish I were with you, in that warm light place where there's music and dancing. (It sounds as though I were meaning Heaven; except that I am sure Heaven will be infernally chilly.)

I am lying in my basket with a spiritual flannel round my chaps. Occasionally the Mountain (8000 feet high) swoops over me and says: “Shall I steam it and put the ustard round or—–” and occasionally Murry drops an Evening News on to me, as a sort of sign from the great world beyond—I have read War and Peace again—and then War and Peace again—and then I feel inclined to positively sing to it

“If You were the Only Book in the World!”