It's a joy to know that The Garden Partyhas given you pleasure and especially that you like my poor old girls, the ‘Daughters.’ I shall never forget lying on that wretched little sofa in Mentone writing that story. I couldn't stop. I wrote it all day and on my way back to bed sat down on the stairs and began scribbling the bit about the meringues.

But your beautiful letter is too generous. I can't pretend praise isn't awfully nice ! And especially as I have not heard one word from anyone whom I know personally since the book appeared. Reviews there have been and a few notes from strangers. But that's not at all the same. I didn't expect to hear and yet my ‘subconscious mind’ has been intensely interested in whether there are any letters or not! I don't think it's bad pride that makes one feel like that. It's the “You feel that too? You know what I was trying to say,” feeling which will be with me while life lasts. Or so I feel. I treasure your letter, even though my Garden Party doesn't deserve it.

Brett sent me a couple of pages from Vogue with reproductions of Gertler's paintings.

I cannot say what is happening. I believe—just blindly believe. After all illness is so utterly mysterious that I don't see why one shouldn't recover as mysteriously. I have a sneaking feeling all the time that Coué is really the man and Coué would only charge 3d. where this man squeezes three hundred francs a time out of me. Happily I have saved 100 so I can pay. But if it is all my eye at the end I shall look awfully silly and dear knows what will happen. But anything, anything to be out of the trap— to escape, to be free. Nobody understands that “depression ”who has not known it. And one cannot ever explain it. It's one's own secret. And one goes on rebelling. Yes, I do, too. But don't you think we do feel it more than other people because of our love of life? Other people really don't care so much. They have long periods of indifference, when they almost might as well be ill. But this poignant, almost unbearable feeling that all is passing. People who are well do not and cannot understand what it is. …

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We have not seen one French person to talk to. We live here like hermits in our two caves at the end of a long dark passage. We work, play chess, read, M. goes out and does the shopping; we make tea and drink it out of doveblue bowls. For some reason, it's all very nice. I should hate to live in a city—in fact I could not, but this is only to last till May. And out of my window I look on other windows and see the funny things people put on the window sills, a hyacinth, a canary, a bottle of milk, and there's a large piece of light, pale sky, and a feeling of Spring. Real Spring. Yesterday on my way to the clinic I saw new leaves on one little tree. It's quite warm too and sunny. We have planned to go to Germany or to Austria this summer if—if—If…