M. is still here. He came back suddenly and now he is going to England to-morrow only to arrange to leave for good… I don't know. I hope he will be happy. When he is away—yes—I do miss his companionship. I miss talking with a man—and it's very lonely here when he's in London—for the Mountain and I only agree when we are silent or out of each other's sight!! But I mean to leave the Riviera as soon as possible. I've turned frightfully against it and the French. Life seems to me ignoble here. It all turns on money. Everything is money. When I read Balzac I always feel a peculiar odious exasperation because according to him the whole of life is founded on money. But he is right. It is—for the French. I page 90 wish the horrid old Riviera would fall into the sea. It's just like an exhibition where every single side show costs another sixpence. But I paid goodness knows what to come in.

Where can one go, I wonder. Italy?

Do tell me if you find a lovely place in Italy… As to England—I never want to see it again. I read M.'s letters from —— and Co. and they horrify me. Did one know all the wrong people? Is that why nobody remains to me—not one—except de la Mare whom I never knew when I was there? …

However, one goes on believing. Life might be marvellous. One keeps faith with that belief in one's work. I've been writing of a dance this afternoon and remembering how one polished the floor was so thrilling that everything was forgotten…