A workman has come who says they will have finished their part of the job to-day and after that it's only a page 246 matter of quelques jours before the water is turned on here. Wonderful people! It's another summer day. As the waves break they are full of gold, like the waves we saw at Bandol. This early morning (6.30) the sea was pink, pale pink—I never saw it so before—and it scarcely breathed…. The washerwoman brought home your clothes last night (yes, the change of subject isn't a really absurd change. I'd think the pink sea all the lovelier if it had a boat in it with your blue shirt for a sail.) I have just put the clothes away among mine—and the carnation sachets. There are tiny false links in your cuffs which impressed me greatly. Here they are waiting for you.

The insect plague is simply awful. No nets or veils will keep them out. The tiny, almost invisible ones, who are so deadly, the laundress tells me are called ‘pâpêtêchīkôs.’

(Zuccinis are not cucumbers. They are a kind of elongated pale yellow marrows. L. M. bought one yesterday. I don't at all see why we should not grow them in Sussex.) I am longing to get out of the garden and make a small tour of Ospedaletti. Every day a new shop seems to arise; and the butcher is evidently a fascinating man. But I shall stick to the garden for the present and get my cough down. I feel wonderfully better, wonderfully stronger. I feel myself walking about like a normal person at times—quite lightly and quickly. Soon it will always be like that.

The olives are ripe and beginning to fall.