Please don't think about my health. Folkestone or Margate (dread places) wouldn't give it me back again. No, I shall go away in September—somewhere, I don't know where—preferably—and here one wants to throw down one's pen (no, to lay it down, carefully and gently) page 37 and to dream of some place where nobody says: “But one moment, if you have fish for lunch you won't have it for dinner, will you, and I had thought of it for breakfast to-morrow… I'm not interrupting seriously. You've not really started work yet, have you?”

Violet: “You know I think K. M. is rather ungrateful and exasperating.”

Ah, don't think that. It's only impatience. There is so much to write and there is so little time.