… It is raining here, but such lovely rain! The drops hang on the rose bushes and on every tip of the palm fronds. Little birds sing; the sea sounds solemn and full and silver gulls fly over. I can smell the earth and I can feel how the violets are growing and all the small things down there under my window. It is exquisite.

Talking about flowers, you know Gentlemen's Buttonholes? (A double daisy, small.) They grow here in every conceivable colour, and massed together they really are a superb sight. I am sure Sutton would have them. We must remember to grow them so in our garden, in a round bed. Country Life, of course, makes it almost impossible to wait for a garden. When one reads the collection of flowery shrubs, par exemple—mock orange (you remember that? It was at Mylor), four kinds of flowering quinces, Mexican fuchsia… Oh dear me! And then the annuals that, sown in January and February, are flowering in Avrilo—there are at least 24 kinds and if you are clever you can grow them so that one kind marches up with banners after the other until the chrysanthemum is there. I think I shall become a very violent gardener. I shall have shelves of tomes and walk about the house whispering the names of flowers. We must have a tiny potting shed, too, just big enough for you and me. I see as I write little small forked sticks with labeis on them. Daphne grows in England: Eden Phillpotts has a great bush. I shall write for a cutting. I read in Country Life of a most excellent apple called “Tom Putts”—silly name, but it seems to be a very fine fruit and the trees bear in their second year. Country Life intoxicates me—the advertisements and the pictures and the way they harp on hardy annuals. We must have a boy for heavy work, but I want to do a fearful lot myself —large gloves again and very short corduroy velveteen page 16 skirt—Buff Orpington colour. Now I must lay down my trowel…