I'm deadly tired to-night! I wrote and finished a story yesterday for the Sketch.² The day after that happens is always a day when one feels like a leaf on the ground—one can't even flutter. At the same time there is a feeling of joy that another story is finished. I put it in such a lovely place, too. The grounds of a convent in Spring with pigeons flying up in the blue and big bees climbing in and out of the freezias below. If I lived in the snow long I should become very opulent. Pineapples would grow on every page, and giant bouquets would be presented to each character on his appearance. Elizabeth was here yesterday and we lay in my room talking about flowers until we were really quite drunk, or I was. She—describing “a certain very exquisite Rose, single ‘pale yellow with coral tipped petals” and so on. I kept thinking of little curly blue hyacinths and white violets and the bird-cherry. My trouble is I had so many flowers when I was little, I got to know them so well that they are simply the breath of life to me. It's no ordinary love; it's a passion. Wait—one day I shall have a garden and you shall hold out your pinny. In the meantime our cat has got his nose scratched beyond words and he's in such a condition that he looks as though he has been taking page 179 part in a boxing match up a chimney. He is to have lessons on the fiddle this Spring. All the Best cats can play at least Hey-diddle-diddle. He must learn. The strings of his fiddle will be of wool, of course, and the bow will have a long tassel on it. I believe he can play the piano. He sits up and plays with his two front paws:

Nellie Bly
Caught a fly
Put it in her tea!

This exquisite morceau was in my Pianoforte Tutor, words and all. Who can have composed it? However, it suits Wingley. It's a subject he can feel sympathy about. He comes down with such a terrific whack on the Fly! He is the most unthinkable lamb, really, and I am sorry if I am silly about him.

But I meant to write about the Flu. You are nervous of it, aren't you? But you can ward it off with food. Milk, my dear. That's not hard to take.

I'm tired of telling you to eat. I now command you to drink. Get the milk habit, and become a secret tippler. Take to drink, I implore you. What the devil does it matter how fat one gets, we shall go to Persia where fatness alone is beauty.