It's very cold here. I have a fire and a rug and a screen. But, of course, the cold is not London cold—it's pure and it's somehow exciting. The leaves shake in the garden—the rose buds are very tight shut—there's a kind of whiteness in the sky over the sea. I loved such days when I was a child. I love them here. In fact, I think Mentone must be awfully like N.Z.—but ever so much better. The little milk-girl comes in at a run, letting the gate swing; she has a red stocking tied round her neck. Marie predicts a strike, snow, no food, no fuel and only la volonté de Dieu will save us. But while she drees her weird she begins to laugh and then forgets. A poor little cat, terrified with pink eyes looked in and begged—and then slunk away. To my joy I hear it dashed into the dining room, seized a poisson on the console and made off with it. Hooray!

What silly little things to tell you—but they make a kind of Life—they are part of a Life that I love. If you were here you'd know what I mean. It's a kind of freedom page 61 —a sense of living—not enduring—not existing—but being alive. I feel I could have children here for about a farthing each, and dress them in little bits cut off one's own clothes. It wouldn't matter as long as they had feathers in their hats. It's all so Easy.