I am longing to be home. It is a great strain to live away from one's own tribe, with people who, however dear they are, are not Artists. These people's minds are about 1894—not a day later. They still talk of such-a-pretty-book and whether one can or whether one can't (Ob ye Gods!)have a platonic friendship with a man and (Oh ye Gods!) agree that you can't while the male is male and the female female!!!! I ‘shock’ them, but if they knew page 25 how they shock me. They make me inclined to roll up my sleeves, pin back my hair, lock the door and take myself and my knife off to the dissecting room—where all such idlers are shut out for ever.

Oh, how pure artists are—how clean and faithful. Think of Tchehov, and even J.'s talk and Anne's laughing, generous way—so remote from all this corruption. Let us remain chaste and youthful with our work and our life and our poetry. Even —— won't do, you know. One can't afford to mix with people. One must keep clear of all the worldly world. And we can do it. I feel our happiness will simply be without end when we are together again.