What is it doing in London to-day? Here it is Spring. For days past it has been warm, blue and gold, sunny, faint, languishing, soft, lovely weather. Isn't it the same over there? The reckless lift boy says “dans un mois il serait pleine été! “That's the kind of large remark I love the French for. They have very nearly hung out their sun-blinds; they have quite turned the puddings into little ices in frills. But why can't I send some of this weather over to you? Can't it be done? Look in the glass. If there is a very bright gay sunbeam flittering on your hair—I sent it from Paris—exprès. At any rate, you are putting out new leaves, crêpe de chine ones and baby ribbon ones. The craving for a new hat is fearful in the Spring. A light, crisp, fresh new-curled hat after these winter dowdies. I suffer from it now. If I had one I should wear it in bed! But the barber is cheaper. He came yesterday and gave me a coup de fer to my wool. Now it's all waves on top. (I have a great tendre for barbers).

About painting. I agree. Good as he is I shall never forget seeing a ballet dancer of his—it was the last thing I saw of his—at his studio. A ballet-dancer. A big, big meaty female dressed in a cauliflower! I don't mean to be horrid; but I do not and cannot understand how one can paint such pictures. They are so dull they make me groan. Hang it all, Brett—a picture must have charm— or why look at it? It's the quality I call tenderness in page 189 writing, it's the tone one gets in a really first-chop musician. Without it you can be as solid as a bull and I don't see what's the good.

Talking about feeling. I had a shock yesterday. I thought my new book would enrage people because it had too much feeling—and there comes a long review talking of the ‘merciless analysis of the man of science.’ It's a mystery. If you do see my book read a story called The Voyage—will you? Keep it if you like it. …

Now I have arrived at the word ‘primroses’ and I see them. Delicate pinkish stems, and the earthy feeling as one picks them so close to the damp soil. I love their leaves too, and I like to kiss buds of primroses. One could kiss them away. They feel so marvellous. But what about blue-bells? Oh dear! Blue-bells are just as good. White ones, faint blue ones that grow in shady hollows very dark blue ones, pale ones. I had a whole spring full of blue-bells one year with Lawrence. I shall never forget it. And it was warm, not very sunny, the shadows raced over the silky grass and the cuckoos sang.

Later. I then got up, had a big blue bath and a rather horrid lunch. Then played chess, wrote for a couple of hours, had tea and foie gras sandwiches and a long discussion with M. on ‘literature.’ Now the light is lighted. Outside there's a marvellous deep lilac sky and I shall work again until dinner. It's strange how nice it is here. One could scarcely be more free. The hotel servants are just a little bit impudent and that's nice, too. There is no servility. I want to tell you that the barber was in raptures with your still life. I think that's a great compliment, don't you? It grows before one's eyes, said he. “II y a de la vie—un mouvement dans les feuilles.” Excellent criticism ! He, good man, was small and fair and like all barbers smelt of a violet cachou and a hot iron. He begged, he implored me to go to the cinema near here. Downstairs it was a little mixed but upstairs, on the balcon, there were armchairs of such size and beauty that one could sleep in them. … Oh Brett, how I like simple page 190 people—not all simple people, some are simple pigs—but on the whole—how much more sympathetic than the ——'s of this world ! Whatever else they have, they arealive. What I cannot bear is this half-existence. This life in the head alone. It's deadly boring.

I think my story for you will be called Canaries. The large cage opposite has fascinated me completely. I think and think about them—their feelings, their dreams, the life they led before they were caught, the difference between the two little pale fluffy ones who were born in captivity and their grandfather and grandmother who knew the South American forests and have seen the immense perfumed sea… Words cannot express the beauty of that high shrill little song rising out of the very stones. … It seems one cannot escape Beauty. … it is everywhere.

I must end this letter. I have just finished a queer story called The Fly. About a fly that falls into an inkpot and a Bank Manager. I think it will come out in the Nation. The trouble with writing is that one seethes with stories. One ought to write one a day at least, but it is so tiring. When I am well I shall still live always far away in distant spots where I can work and look undisturbed. No more literary society for me ever. As for London, the idea is too awful. I shall sneak up to Pond Street every now and again—very rarely indeed and I'll beg you not to let a soul know. It's no joke, my dear, to get the letters I do from people who want to meet one. It's frightening!