A lovely ‘gold dust’ day. From early morning the fishermen have been passing and the little boats with red sails put out at dawn. I am dressed to go to the post-office with my two mandats.

When I woke this morning and opened the shutters and saw the dimpling sea I knew I was beginning to love this place—this South of France. Yesterday I went for a walk—the palm trees after the rain were magnificent, so firm and so green and standing up like stiff bouquets before the Lord. The shop people, too, are very kind. You are a regular customer, after a day or two, and my Englishman says they are very honest.

Last night in the salon I had a long talk with a woman who is here for her health. A woman about fifty. She has been nursing since the beginning of the war somewhere near Arles. She is of the Midi and has a very pronounced accent, which is extremely fascinating—and she knows and adores ‘mon pays.’ She told me all about the coast, about all sorts of little places “de toute beauté”—and as she talked I began to see this place—not romantically but truly. I like it and more than like it. This woman was reading the letters of Taine…. She told me such good stories of the black soldiers—I must not forget them. I hope I shall speak a great deal with her because she is very page 51 good for my French too. She has a good vocabulary and a way of spacing her words giving them a very nice, just quantity. Oh, Bogey, it is the most Heavenly day. Every little tree feels it and waves faintly from delight. The femme de chambre called to the gardener just now as she beat the next door mattress out of the window—“Fait bon?” and he said, “Ah, délicieux!” which seemed to me very funny for a gardener, especially this little chap. Now I must button my boots with a tiger's tail and go out.