It is quite obvious upon this morning's showing that several of my letters have been lost in the post and especially (1) the one with the tour of the Elephant interior in it, (2) my (I'll confess) rather precious ‘Note Book,’ of which I don't possess anything like another copy. ¹

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What has happened, at its very brightest and best, is that the post has been—that these treasures have been perhaps ‘over-weight’—there's been a Id. to pay and naturally no one to pay it. So the postman has chucked them away. On the other hand, some person in the house, either tops or bottoms, may have stolen 'em. That's just as possible, in fact, very much more so.

This ‘sort of thing,’ familiar, oh, ever so familiar as one is with it, is still devilishly wearing. So if they do turn up Will You Please Let me Know.

I mourn the Note Book. Yes, I do mourn that.

Perhaps you will understand if if if you get my letter this morning why I sent my so unreasonable wire. That was the only explanation—Impatience. A profound dismay at the idea of holding out so long, a feeling that I'd get cramp or the waves would go over my head too often or the rope would break. So, though I know and do absolutely realise you're hurrying as fast as your boat will sail you, I yet—simply couldn't help lifting up my cowardly little voice and saying, “Oh please do try to come faster.”

You see a fortnight in London is so broken up into little bits, so shaken and scattered that it can be gathered up and held tight in the smallest little bag.

(Bolo: ‘What, Monsieur, is a million? A little pile like that!’)

But a fortnight in my world (into which you will never enter, even loving each other as we do) is a thing quite without beginning or end. You see 14 nights or 12 nights or 2 nights can be up the gathered meadow of Eternity and down again.

There are hours, moments, glimpses, when one can't face it, when one wants to stand with one's face in one's sleeves and just Wail….

I have torn up and chucked in the waste-paper basket all the work I have done these last few days. It was hectic.

Mrs. Honey brings me the afternoon post. Hides it behind her apron and says, “I thought you'd be wanting page 199 a caändle,” and then suddenly just like a girl shows me the letter. “There's nought so good for eë.”

Your letter has just lifted me from under the appalling umbrella … I can't write to-day. I am going off to the plage to watch the waves….