I'd like to have heard you and E. about minds. I miss talk.

L. M. (brightly and lightly): “Wouldn't it be awful if one hadn't got hands and one lived in a place where there were a great many flies? Wouldn't it be simply dreadful?”

That is no substitute.

It's a queer day here, all greys and purples and very page 261 chill. The sea seems to be growing bigger and bigger, pushing further and further out…. People shout as they pass, against the wind. Two exquisite birds have been walking in the garden. They had long, narrow, paleyellow bodies, little jackets in black and gold, very long silver-grey tails. Happy tiny creatures, quite unafraid, walking over the gravel and having a gay, gay little talk.

I have a feeling that my letter yesterday did not ring properly. Please blame the insects. My hands feel as though they were on fire, all swollen and inflamed. They will be better in a day or two. It's so strange the insects should persist, for it's really very cold at times, as cold as it was in Marseilles. Yet in the evenings, even with the windows shut and powder burnt, out they come. Bother them!

I finished Stella Benson last night. I thought I might do her with Hope Mirrlees—two women, both protesting in the preface that their books are out of the ordinary. But no bridge could be thrown from one to the other. Miss Mirrlees lives in another world, and her world would shudder at Stella Benson. I don't. On the contrary. They are two interesting problems, very intriguing. I hope I manage to say what I want to say….

Please give Wing a foursquare kiss from me and Athenaeum a plain (non-currant) kiss. Richard spoke of my four brothers—you, he and the cats. We sound like a fairy family, don't we?

[Later.] If you write that novel you've got to have a chapter called “The Birth of Wingley,” don't you think? I have, as I always have, a sort of sweet scent in the air, a sort of floating mirage of the novel. But I feel one would be torn between tears and laughter all the while: everything would be in rainbows. Already long before the child is born I see the light above its head, a ring of light—so lovely. Would it have cats and flowers in it, and could B. wander there, wearing old Feltie, and Wing wave at him from a high window? There would be pain in it, too, agony. Would there be a description of the house page 262 after they were in bed—the fire dying in their room—the cat on the stairs—the moon coming through the window and shining on to the Shepherdess clock—on to her gay little dreaming figure sitting on the hill with her basket of fruit—and then his dark head on the pillow? Do not be cross with me. I am only dreaming to myself of what the book might be….

I'm in my room, lying down, the door and window open. The wind, thinking the house is empty, is taking a quiet look through, humming to herself. The shadow dances from the olive and there's no sound except the sea.

I dreamed last night that I had come home (a fever dream—horrible) and it was still October, dark, foggy, bitterly cold. And I was ill. I sent a note to S. who came. I was still in my travelling clothes: a black velvet cap and my peach-coloured shawl for a coat. He came and did not speak to me: you and he started talking about a new tobacco to be bought by the sheet: he had some to show you. Then you said, “Well, I'm better go,” and left us alone. And S. wiped his glasses and said, very dryly: “Well, I'm afraid you've broken something more than your journey.” I said: “Oh, but I'm leaving for Italy again next week.' He put his glasses on again. I said: “Doctor, I can see you'd rather not attend me any more.” We shook hands and he walked out—and I saw the greenish fog in the window … and knew I was caught. To wake up and hear the sea and know I had not done the dreadful thing—that was joy.

I feel much better now—more normal. If it were anybody but you I could not say this, but really the gardener's wife had something to do with it. I felt her in my lung. Perhaps the truth was I was feeling weak, and she stabbed.