No post. Bin and gone. I understand why there's none, all right. I got your Wednesday letter yesterday, see? But all the same…. Oh, it is so hot, too. Why aren't you here? Why didn't you arrive last night, so that we could have a pig-nig to-day. These are not real complaints, you understand, only laments for the impossible. A. and I are going off for the day, she with her sketch book and I with my writing book—and our flasks and sangwiches. She is going to bathe. The people here even are bouleversé by the weather and lovely day.

[A long wavy line across the page.]

That is one immense wave which lifted me right up into the sun and down again. Mrs. Honey brought me a letter after all! And the moment when I got it and saw your black writing on the blue—oh dear, does anyone know the meaning of rapture but me?

I'll send the first long chapitre of my story this week. Your letter has so fired me that I know I'll write like billy-o to-day.

I must answer your ‘news.’ I still sigh for a Definite Elephant. They ought to let you know this week.

Do please send me Frank Harris's letter. I like him for that. But then I don't hate him at all. Now that I see all round him, he astonishes me, and I like and pity him—and he does enormously feed one's literary appetite. How he beats that man in Raw Youth, par exemple, and yet what a man he'd be in that espèce de livre!

I am getting so dreadfully young—a sort of Pelorus Sound Wig. Rib and I seem about the same age again. He is wearing my coral necklace to-day.

There is my bath coming. Mrs. Honey says I must get up.