How glad I should have been to have seen you next week. But I am being swep' away again to Paris next Monday, to go on with my X-ray treatment. Why do I always have to write to you about complaints! It is a horrid fate. But there it is. The bad weather here these last few days (it's fine, of course, since I bought my ticket) has brought my cough back again, stronger than ever for its small holiday. And my Paris doctor threatens me with a complete return to the sofa if I don't go through with his course. I thought I could manage to have the same thing done here. But it's not the same, and it's frightening to play with these blue rays.

So there are my steamer trunk and hat box on the page 246 carpet eyeing each other, walking round each other, ready to begin the fight all over again. And I shan't see you or talk to you or give you tea or hear about anything. I'm so very, very sorry!

Are you really better? It's good news to know you are able to come as far as Hampstead. I have been staying in a tiny little house here, behind a fan of trees, with one of those green convolvulus London gardens behind it. It's been beyond words a rest to be in a private house again with a private staircase and no restaurant, nobody in buttons, no strange, foreign gentleman staring at your letters in the letter rack. Oh, how I hate hotels! They are like permanent railway stations without trains.

There's the dinner bell. I must go down into the hold and eat. I have been doing the housekeeping here. It was very homelike to hear the sole domestic say, “I know a party, m'm, as is a nice' and with mouse 'oles, 'aving them in the kitchen somethink dreadful!” So unlike pert Suzanne and jolie Yvonne.