Please always tell me at once of the faults in my reviews. Haul me over the hottest coals. It is only kind. I expect you to do this. If anything is all right—let it be; but otherwise, do please beat me. Elizabeth Stanley is sending two poems on Monday; she wants to hold them over till then. One longs to write poems here.

That Samuel Butler! We knew it, didn't we? The ironing-board and the sewing-machine—they are in all his books—he gave them to himself as well—was an expert in the use of both really. What a surface he puts on things! What little crisp frills! How neatly turned! How beautifully, enfin, he ‘got up’ other people's washing. As to the sewing-machine, the 2nd half of The Way of All Flesh is all machine-sewn. I wish I could see the woman's ¹ letters; I'd dearly love to.

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This afternoon I have been to San Remo. A great Ausflug—the first since you went away. We took the tram and went first class—velvet seats, very fine, but iron seats in velvet gloves alas! as the journey progressed. It was a beautifully light gay afternoon. I don't feel in the least tired, I feel rested; in fact, I went partly to rest my eyes. Oh dear, if I could tell you all I saw! But the very very thrilling thing was that I went to our china shop and bought another plate, (I am beginning our collection with ½ dozen soup plates: they are a late dowry) and the woman said at the end of this month she will have cups and saucers in this ware all sizes, from large café au lait downwards, also teapots and jugs. This is of international importance, isn't it? I shuddered with joy, seeing the large fluted cups, the sun on the breakfast table, honey in the comb to eat, you one end and me the other with three each side with their cups tilted up to their noses. But seriously, isn't it Great News?

The money flew out of my purse—but it was worth it. Then we caught the tram home. L. M. carried the parcels, and soon the kettle was boiling and we were having Tea. That is like the end of a ‘composition,’ Describe an outing. The villa trembling in the late sun and shadows was beautiful to return to. It is so beautiful. If only I did not get so bitten! Worse than ever—both my arms and hands.

San Remo is all in readiness for its visitors. Every second shop a cake shop: little cakes about the size of a cup for 3.50, and Victory with her car full of chocolates—you know the style—two sugar horses with silver wings, and little loves holding, staggering under, the bonbons, and then the stern, majestic, helmeted figure with her sword upraised, standing in a chariot of bouchées!

How strange human nature is! An English clergyman and his waife in front of the postcard shop.

“My dear, that view, I am share, was taken from our window!”

“Oh, do you think so, Arthur?”

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“There is no question of doubt.”

“Well … perhaps so.”

“Perhaps? What do you mean by perhaps? Why should I be so positive if it were not so?”

“Yes, I see what you mean now.”

And they walked away, poor silly creatures, and he said,

“Niente, niente!” to a boy crying newspapers who was not for a moment crying them at him—and remarked “These Italians are famous Beggahs.”

Do please send me Art and Letters. Does my story [Pictures] look bad?