Late Afternoon: I decided when I went out this afternoon to buy the little coffee-pot and the coffee. But first I walked in the direction of the Hotel des Bains. Yes, it was beautiful, very—silver and gold light—old men painting boats, old women winding wool or mending nets, young girls making those gay wreaths of yellow flowrers—and a strange sweet smell came off the sea. But I was homesick.

I went to the paper shop to exchange a smile with someone, and bought for three sous The Paris Daily Mail and a smile. A commercial traveller with a wooden leg was in the shop taking orders.

“Toujours pas de chocolat?” said Madame.

“Mon Dieu, Madame, if my poor leg était seulement de vrai Menier, je serais millionaire!”

Ha, ha! Very good. Very Typical. Very French. But I am faint with homesickness. Although it is so goldy warm, the tips of my fingers and my feet and lips and inside my mouth—all are dead cold. And so I walk along until I come to the public wash-place, and there are the page 117 women slipping about in the water in their clattering sabots, holding up those bright-coloured things, laughing, shouting, and not far away from them a travelling tinker with his fat woman sits on the ground beside his mule and cart. He has a little fire to heat his solder pan and a ring of old pots round him. It makes a good ‘ensemble.’ The washerwomen bawl after me “T'as remarqué les bas!” but I do not care at all. I would not care if I had no stockings at all.

And here are those villas built up the hillside. Here is the one whose garden was always full of oranges and babies' clothes on a line. Still is. Also there is a dark woman in a wide hat holding a very tiny baby to her cheek and rocking it. The road is all glare and my shoes make a noise on it as though it were iron. I feel sick, sick, as though I were bleeding to death. I sit down on a milestone and take out The Daily Mail. I turn my back to the shimmering sea and the fishers all out in their little boats spearing the fish.

“Air Raid in London. Still in Progress.”

A cart comes up full of chunks of hay. An old man in a blue blouse with great bushy eyebrows holds up his hand and cries “Il fait beau au soleil,” and I smile. When he passes I shut my eyes. This must be borne. This must be lived through….