I am afraid the courier is past and my letters are drowned for it is as wild a day as ever I have seen—a sky like lead, a boiling sea, the coast hidden by thick mist, a low noise of wind and such rain dashing on the windows. It is very cold, too, and (3.30) dark already. My maid, however, lit me a splendid fire this morning and after lunch when the room was warm I got up and am sitting by it now in the armchair. I don't feel very grand and though the fire isn't like that wretched affair at Cassis and burns merrily and warm, it seems to light the shadows and to prick an ear to the quiet—How quiet it is! except for the storm outside! Much quieter than Day's Bay!

No, the courier has just come and there is a letter after all.

I am sorry I made you sad about that little villa. I heard of another last night from my Englishman—four rooms—good stoves—electric light, heating, a verandah, a garden all furnished, and so sheltered that you can dine out every day—80 francs a month. The man who has just taken it says he buys fish at Id. a dozen, so I should live off fish and rosebuds.—But no, I'll not speak of these things, for it's useless and foolish.