This is the third day without a letter. I believe the Post Office does it on purpose. I have a box there which I bought for 14 lire where all my letters and so on are kept so as to avoid any mistake, but they don't care.

I went to the Post to-day down the road past the railway station through a small place and up some steps. Did you ever go that way? I did not cough once all the way and came home past the shops and wasn't in the least tired. It is a brilliant day, bitter cold here, but on the level—gorgeous. There's no doubt about it, the Casetta is not a warm one. This morning, for instance, it was icy here, really perishing cold: even in my room the wind was so sharp. I went out dressed in furs and a shawl and woolly coat and after ten minutes on the level was much too hot. There was no wind there, either. But coming back, as soon as I began to climb the steps, the wind could be felt. The two front rooms are, of course, unlivable till after lunch, but that shelter is as bad—even worse: it's a wind trap. I shall always, when it's fine enough to go out, walk in the mornings now, and then (as usual) write here in the dining room in the afternoon. But the difference of temperature between here and in the village!

Did you ever explore the village? It is so lovely—more beautiful than Bandol. All is seen against the huge background of the purple mountain. It was silent to-day page 284 except for an old woman crying fish and the boys flinging a ball among the trees of the place; but it feels gay, rather fantastic. The air smelled of pines and of deep yellow roses which grow everywhere like weeds: they even climb up the aloe trees.

I can't describe (yes, I could) what real convalescence feels like. I decide to walk in the road, and instead of stopping, putting my stick off the pavement, then one foot, then the other, I take a little spring with all three legs and have to hold myself back from crying to an indifferent native: Did you see that superb feat? (That is not intended for a F. joke).

I am reviewing —–to send to-morrow. It's devilish hard. Talk about intellectual snobbery—her book reeks of it. (But I can't say so). You would dislike it. You'd never read it. It's so long and so tahsome. By the way, I gave C. the Oxford Book of English Verse to look at yesterday while she was testing somebody's specs and she said a moment after, “There are some quite pretty things here, dear. Who are they by?”… What do you think of that? I should have replied: Temple Thurston. Instead I pretended not to hear.