Yesterday I went for a long walk round by the sea towards St. Cyr (which is very beautiful and wild and like my N. Z.) and then I struck inland and came home by little lanes and crooked ways bordered with olive trees—past the flower farms. I thought I should never get home again. I got quite lost and thought I kept hearing voices. The walls were always in the way and when I peered through the gates there was never a soul to be seen except jonquils and daffodils and big blue violets and white roses. The sun went down—I passed a little villa called “Allons-y” and coo-ed but a Fearful White Dog, happily attached to a pump, answered me so effectually that I decided to strike into a wood and have done with it But at that moment a far too agile malignant-looking goat appeared—vaulted over a wall just ahead of me. I rushed in the opposite direction and got found at last.

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My work is shaping for the first time to-day—I feel nearer it—I can see the people walking on the shore and the flowery clusters hanging on the tree…. if you know what I mean. It has only been a dim coast and a glint of foam before. ¹ The days go by quickly.