Yesterday after you had gone I bought some biscuits and oranges and after putting them in my room and entering the fact of them in my Account Book (!) I went for a walk. It was hot and sunny with big reine claude ² waves breaking on the rocks. When I came back I picked my geraniums—toujours in a state of lively terror. I wanted to tell (1) the proprietor (2) the gardener (3) the girls hanging out washing (4) anyone in and out of sight that I had permission. I even suspected that the white dog had been page 36 taught to hurle when one of the pensionnaires touches the flowers. But there they are in the lovely little jug you gave me—un joli petit bouquet.

The crepuscule descended just as it did the day before. At six I took Jules Laforgue's rather cynical arm and descended to the salon and read until dinner time. A New Lady appeared in tight purple velvet, low neck and short sleeves, tiny waist, big fat shoulders, marabout scarf, little round head with curls like escargots on the forehead. I was quite overwhelmed. After a chaste repast (your serviette was still there—I got awfully sentimental over it) the man that we said was English, made me a leg and offered me two copies of the Times. I took about two hours reading them—picked them absolutely clean and decided that the English newspapers were the finest, etc., and that no other nation, etc., could possibly, etc. But they were packed with meat…. An attack on L.'s father as a pro-German—attempted suicide of Miss Annesley Kenealy—Sir John Simon's attack on the Times—the King's first excursion in a Bath chair (Note the capital B. Heavens! What a dignity it gave!). After I had returned them the Englishman's lady opened a rapid fire. But I kept under cover and she changed her tactics and told me a lot of interesting things. For instance: November is the very bad month of the year for the South of France. ‘Parisians’ never come then. December is early spring. The flowers begin—the jonquils and the oranges. The villas open and the Parisians arrive. The mistral never blows here—never. This place abounds in charming walks and one can buy a map of the forest paths for 50 centimes. (But shall I ‘enter those enchanted woods,’ do you think, Boge, even with a map of the paths? Courage! I must!) They are expecting 25 people at this hotel for Christmas. This was told to encourage me, I think—and so on until bed-time.

I woke early and for a long time forgot you were not with me but felt you beside me and only when I wanted to tell you my Extraordinary Dream, I remembered.

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It is a lovely day again—very bright and warm. They are still digging up the garden and prising up little rock borders with disused railway lines and telegraph poles. The boats with red sails are sailing on the sea and your ship is quite close in. Yesterday they lowered a boat and the exhausted crew ‘tumbled’ (see The Lancet) into it and were rowed to shore.