I never had a lovelier letter from you. And it came on my birthday, wasn't that good fortune. Wasn't that like you, the billiard champion? I did love you for it! You have a real very rare gift for writing letters. And oh how nice and long they are! Arrows, little side borders, little flower beds very tight packed with words along the edge—I follow them all and even dip into the Egyptian Maze though never to find my way in it!

Ah, my dear. Priceless exquisite treasures came floating out of your letter. I have gathered them all up. But that reminds me of the canary feathers. I am having a pair of wings made of them for delicate occasions. Did you ever feel anything so airy-fairy? I sat in the Luxembourg Gardens to-day and I thought of you. I am glad you were not with me for I felt like a chat malade, sitting in the sun and not a friend of anybody's. But all was so ravishingly fall-of-the-year lovely that I felt how you would have responded. The gardener was sweeping leaves from the bright grass. The flowers are still glorious but still, as though suspended, as though hardly daring to page 257 breathe. Down, down, soft and light floated the leaves. They fall over babies and old people and the laughing young. The fat pigeons-out-of-the-Ark are no longer quite so fat. But they swing between the trees just as they did, swooping and tumbling as if trying to scare one. Heavens! What a lovely earth it is!

I am so glad you are going to Scotland. I feel it may do you good to have a change. And it's nice to think of you fishing. Forgive me if I feel the fish show off just a tiny little bit when you come near, flash about, blow bubbles, swim on their heads. But that's only my wickedness. For I feel you are very expert and grave really and I should stand on the bank—awed! You see I've only fished with things like cottage loaves and a bent pin and a worm.

Tell me about Scotland. I do so hope it's going to be nice. I wonder if you will take your velours hat. It suits you marvellously. When I am rich you shall have velours hats by the dozing, and a persian lamb jacket made like your jazz velvet coat, lined with pale yellow brocade. A pinky pigeon grey very soft pleated skirt to go with it, crocodile shoes, thick grey silk stockings. And inside the coat a straight tunic of silver jersey de sole. I confess I am quite ravished away by you in the persian lamb coat. I have just been with you to a concert—you wearing it. Everybody turned round; the orchestra stopped, the flute fainted and was carried out. A dark gentleman stepped forward and presented you with the Order of the Sun and Moon; it was the Shah of Persia. But I must stop. Though I could go on for ever.

It's Sunday evening. 6.30. I am lying in bed writing to you. Just as before, I get up at midi and have to go to bed at about half past five. But I feel far more ill this time than last time. I don't know what is the matter, I am sick all the time—and cold. But as I've never imagined cold before—an entirely new kind. One feels like wet stone. Piping hot water bottles, covers, grandma jaegars, nothing will stop it. Then it goes and one burns page 258 instead. And all this in a little band-box of a room. Never mind, it will pass. To morrow I am going to see Gurdjieff. I feel certain he will help me. I feel equally certain that this particular horrid hour is passing, and I'll come out of it, please heaven, a much nicer creature. Not a snail. Not a creeping worm, either. I shall come and make the whole of your garden before you can say “Painting-brush.” You just wait!

My dear little rooms. I shall be in them in the Spring, if I manage to escape and I really think I shall.

I have seen very few people since I came. Only men connected with the Institute, a very nice Doctor Young and a quite remarkable other man—rather like the chief mate on a cargo steamer. A type I like. Work I can't at all for the present. Even reading is very difficult.

The weather is marvellous. Where it is not blue it is gold. Oh, I must tell you. We took a taxi out to lunch to-day (there's no food here except supper trays) and who should be at the restaurant but (of course, you guess) Mrs. D. Très très très chic with such an extra passionate Sunday Paris mouth—and so terrifically at home! I must say I liked her for it. It was so young. She sat behind us. As we got out she saw me and I gave her a wretched cool nod. Not on purpose. But at that moment I was overcome with this confounded sickness and hardly knew what I was doing. But I hope she won't think me very horrid for it. I don't like doing such things.

But I am still not sincere with you. In my heart I am far more desperate about my illness and about Life than I ever show you. I long to lead a different life in every way. I have no belief whatever in any kind of medical treatment. Perhaps I am telling you this to beg you to have faith in me—to believe that whatever I do it is because I can't do otherwise. That is to say (let me say it bang out) I may go into the Institute for three months. I don't know that I shall. But if I have more faith in it than in Manoukhin I certainly must. Keep this private. I know you will. But don't speak to anybody about it.

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Manoukhin isn't a magician. He has cured some people—a great many—and some he hasn't cured. He made me fatter—that is quite true. But otherwise? I'm exactly where I was before I started. I “act” all the rest, because I am ashamed to do otherwise, looking as I do. But it's all a sham. It amounts to nothing. However—this is just speculation. But as I am thinking it I felt I ought to write it to you. See? It is not a serious proposition.