I wish Wing could write letters. I should set him papers of questions and give him prizes for full answers. The weather is marvellous, like silk—very hot and still. People are bathing below. It's so clear one can see their legs and arms, almost their toes. This house is rather like a fairy house. It is an adorable place to live in—and then the garden—and the view of Ospedaletti is exquisite. The view is for ever subtly changing. It's far more beautiful and remote than Pauline. The fact, too, that one is for ever conscious of this huge expanse of sea…. God knows I don't want to live here, but for a place to get well in, it could not be more ideal.

L. M. is off to San Remo to see if she can find a litre of fine muslin. Just as I thought, she loves that jaunt in, and “You don't mind, Katie, now you have your revolver, do you?” No, I don't….