Here is the history of my lunch. I decided I could never go to the Brasserie again because there was a black cat that frightened me there, so to-day I sought pastures new. All were impudently full, so I fell back on Chartier. I wanted something cheap, so I ordered pied de veau. My strike! … I had that removed, but still hungry I ordered risotto milanais and got a lump of rice originally covered in tomato sauce, but the sauce had run on to some one else's crême d'Isigny in transit. Then I ordered compôte de rhubarbe. “C'est fini.” And looking down at that moment I saw on my thumb an immense BUG in all possible comfort and half full already. That was the limit. I fled here—and this coffee is just like squeezed wet flannel.

I wonder if it is the war that has made the people here so hideous, or if I am out of joint. They appear to me a nation of concierges. And the women look such drabs in their ugly mourning. I wish I had some new shoes and a straw hat. My head and my feet are always hot—but these are minor things. It is a brilliant day fine. Everything shines.

How terrible it is that waiters must have flat feet! These are shuffling about—sweaty—ugly. If they were turned out of their cafés what would they do? Plainly nothing.

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My book marche bien. I feel I could write it anywhere, it goes so easily, and I know it so well. It will be a funny book.

Now I've finished my coffee. I am going.