My feeling for this little house is that somehow it ought to be ours. It is, I think, a perfect house in its way and just our size. The position—up a side road off a side road standing high—all alone—the chief rooms facing South and West—the garden, the terrace all South—is ideal. You could do all the garden. There's a small vegetable plot outside the kitchen and scullery—there is a largish piece in the front—full of plants and trees—with a garden tap and at the side another bed—a walk—a stone terrace overlooking the sea—a great magnolia tree—a palm that looks as though the dates must ripen. You shall have photographs of all this. And then it's so solid inside and so somehow, spacious. And all on two floors and as well all the kitchen premises away, shut away and again perfectly equipped. I shall, of course, keep the strictest accounts and see exactly what it would cost us to live here.

Marie, the maid, is an excellent cook—as good as Annette was. She does all the marketing, and as far as I can discover she's a very good manager. A marvel really. Of course she cooks with butter, but then one doesn't eat butter with one's meals so it comes to the same thing. The food is far better than any possible house we go to in England. I don't know to whose to compare it—and all her simple dishes like vegetables or salads are so good. page 43 It's a great pleasure to go into the kitchen for my morning milk and see this blithe soul back from market in the spotless kitchen with a bunch of lemon leaves drying for tisane and a bunch of camomile hanging for the same.

All is in exquisite order. There are pots on the stove, cooking away—mysterious pots—the vegetables are in a great crock—in bundles—and she tells me of her marvellous bargains as I sip the milk. She is the kind of cook Anatole France might have.

As to the weather it is really heavenly weather. It is too hot for any exertion, but a breeze lifts at night, and I can't tell you what scents it brings, the smell of a full summer sea and the bay tree in the garden and the smell of lemons. After lunch to-day we had a sudden tremendous thunderstorm, the drops of rain were as big as marguerite daisies—the whole sky was violet. I went out the very moment it was over—the sky was all glittering with broken light—the sun a huge splash of silver. The drops were like silver fishes hanging from the trees. I drank the rain from the peach leaves and then pulled a shower-bath over my head. Every violet leaf was full. I thought of you—these are the things I want you to have. Already one is conscious of the whole sky again and the light on the water. Already one listens for the grasshopper's fiddle, one looks for the tiny frogs on the path—one watches the lizards. … I feel so strangely as though I were the one who is home and you are away.

Tuesday, September 21: I dropped this letter and only to-day I pick it up again… And I still haven't told you about this house or the life or the view or what your room is like. It all waits. Will you just take me and it for granted for about a week? In a week I'll be a giant refreshed—but I've simply got to get back my strength after the last blow.

But you know how soon I come to the surface. It did pull me down. It's only a few days. It's over. I'm on the up grade, but there you are—just for the moment. Each day the house finds its order more fixed and just page 44 (that's not English). Marie does every single thing. I am having an awning made so that I can lie out all day. The weather is absolute exquisite radiance, day after day, just variegated by these vivid storms. It's very hot and the insects are a trouble, but it's perfect weather.

I'll just have to ask you to take a wave of a lily white hand to mean all for the moment. I wish I were stronger. I'm so much better. My cough is nearly gone. It's nothing but de la faiblesse and I know it will pass. But not to be able to give you all this when I want to—that's hard to bear.