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Your letter went to the cockles of my heart—bless you for it—and curiously enough I had been thinking over the Spring Book only yesterday—seeing it and hoping that we would bring it off. Shall us? Let's.

I will send you a Bud or a Leaf as they pop out and if you like ‘em—ça ira. I have a very definite idea at this distance, at this temperature, and with the willow leaves flying in at the windows, what Spring felt like to me—and it's so mixed with lobsters, winkles, the smell of the sea—weedy pools, it ought with the help of the Lord to have enough Body. I shall get down to it—bang off—especially as I am tied to the Sofa leg until Thursday week. That means I can't come and spend the delightful day with you until after then—Hélas. But ask me again, won't you, and I'll come along with my slippers in a satin bag and my Plain Knitting. I long to see the studio. I love the Quality of your Fine Feeling for Decoration. One feels immensely rested and stimulated at the same time—a sort of fruitful Basking, if you know what I mean. I'm sending you to-day a snippet of home-made Cake from my home. Birthday cake (I was 30 yesterday!). I hope it arrives in good order. You are to eat every crumb yourself!

My house is rather a joy when I can forget that the tooth glass is out of proportion with the lotion bottle, etc., etc., etc. My Papa sent a specialist to see me yesterday, who said that if I didn't go into a sanatorium I had not a Dog's Chance. Blast his eyes! Je m'en f—. I feel full of fire and buck.

I am sure Peace is coming—aren't you? Oh, I have such a longing for France. Can you hear that street cry Marchand d'habits? It sounds like Chand abi and is said or sung with a sort of jump in the middle.

Well—God bless us all—and you expecially—your ‘Hedge’ ¹ nods and waves as I write, with orange butterflies fanning their wings over the campions.