There is no answer to this letter. But I wanted to tell you something very good that happened to-day. Yesterday I decided that I must take this treatment and I telephoned M. I was sitting alone in the waiting-room of the clinique reading Goethe's conversations with Eckermann when M. came in. He came quickly over to me, took my hand and said simply, ‘Vous avez décidé de commencer avec la traitement. C'est très bien. Bonne santé!” And then he went as quickly out of the room saying, ‘Tout de suit’ (pronounced ‘toot sweet’ for he speaks very little French). But this coming in so quickly and so gently was a beautiful act, never to be forgotten, the act of someone very good.

Oh, how I love gentleness. All these people everywhere are like creatures at a railway station—shouting, calling, rushing, with ugly looks and ways. And the women's eyes—like false stones—hard, stupid—there is only one word, corrupt. I look at them and I think of the words of Christ, “Be ye therefore perfect even as your Father in Heaven is perfect”—But what do they care? How shall they listen? It is terribly sad. Of course, I don't want them to be all solemn or Sundayfied. God forbid. But it seems there is so little of the spirit of love and gaiety and warmth in the world just now. Why all this pretence? But it is true—it is not easy to be simple, it is not just (as A. T.'s friend used to say) a sheep sneezing.

It is raining. There is a little hyacinth on my table—a very naive one.