Finally I could bear it no longer. I came up to my room and took a hot bath and then curled up in bed and smoked and tried to read a new Dickens. No use. The sea was very loud. I looked at the watch and saw it said 25 to 12 and then I went to sleep. When I looked again it was nearly four. So I turned on the light and waited, waited for day. How the light changed, I never shall page 60 forget. I put on my big purple coat and opened the shutters and sat on the window sill. It was all primrosy with black mountains. A sailing ship put out to sea. I saw all the little men on board, and how the sail was put up and how when it caught the breath of wind the ship went fast. Two more of our big ships, with a rattle of chains, hoisted anchor and put out to sea. I saw the bending, straining bodies of the men. And then came the fishers bringing in their pots. Then the first bird—At seven I heard my little maid lighting the stove so I ran out and asked for my déjeuner—washed in cold water—kissed my roses—put on my goblin hat and flew into the garden. The market was there—with two funny Spaniards beating drums. Such flowers! Such violets! But I kept my pennies for you and me. I thought I should have to have a small fête so when I went to the post office I put new relief nibs in all the awful old crusty pens. The sea, and sky this morning are literally a dark navy (see Aunt Li). I sent your telegram, ran home to find the maids beating the carpets and the white dog overslept and pretending he had been awake for hours on the terrace. Now I am going with a gent in corduroys to look at a furnished villa of his.