It was extraordinarily kind in you to have heard my prayer. Here (if it's not stolen) is the P.O. That is right—isn't it? And now I have their address for next time. Admirable cigarettes! I am very sorry to hear about your throat. What a very great bore for you—not being able to smoke or talk. Oh dear—what's left in this lovely languorous weather? Do you sit at the window and sip cups of wine all day? I hope you'll “get better soon.” How jolly about the blue paper and Trystan Edwards, ¹ too. Perhaps he will sail up the river to get his

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copy in a three-masted brigantine with eleven sails. But I am afraid not.

This place is still exquisite. I wish I felt more of a little lion than I do. However, it's nice to sit on one's balcony under a campion-pink sunshade and stare at the sea and think what a wonderful business this writing business is. I've been keeping a note book too. That's fun, but it's rather lonely fun and it makes one feel a bit spinsterish, too. It's a form of Patience—almost.

Truth is—I miss M. terribly, but he is coming down on the 20th for ten days and then I shall come back to London with him, and come and see you, if I may. (But please don't think I'm a “sad old creature.” I'm not.) Wish you were here. We'd have strawberries for tea. They come from Polperro, from little gardens overhanging the sea.