C. sent me a photograph of myself at three months old. It was a dreadful shock. I had always imagined it—a sweet little laughing thing, rather French, with wistful eyes under a fringe, firmly gripping a spade, showing even then a longing to dig for treasure with her own hands. But this little solemn monster with a wisp of hair looked as though she were just about to fall backwards head over heels. On her feet she wears, as far as I can make out, a pair of ordinary workman's boots which the photographer, from astonishment or malice, has photographed so close up that each tootsie is the size of her head. The only feature about her is her ears which are neatly buttonholed on to the sides of her head and not just safety-pinned on as page 271 most babies' are. Even the spade she clasps with the greatest reluctance….