I am rather conscious that my letters have fallen off just these last days. Specially so since this evening I have read yours written at Oxford on Thursday. You know how it is when just the letter you get is the letter you would love to get. That was my experience with this one of yours. I dipped into that remote Oxford and discovered you there. Heard that click of the cricket ball and I saw the trees and the grass. I was with you, standing by you, not saying anything, but happy.

The reason why I haven't written is that I am fighting a kind of Swiss chill.

All day, in the sun, the men have been working in the vineyards. They have been hoeing between the vines, and then an old man has been dusting certain rows with powder out of a Giant Pepper-pot. The heat has been terrific. The men have worn nothing but cotton trousers. Their bodies are tanned almost red brown—a very beautiful colour. And every now and then they stop work, lean on their pick, breathe deeply, look round. I feel I have been watching them for years. Now the day is over; the shadows are long on the grass. The new trees page 106 hold the light and wisps of white cloud move dreamily over the dreaming mountains. It is all very lovely…

How hot is it in England? Here it is really—as C. would say—almost tropical. The nights are hot too. One lies with both windows open, and my toes as usual, get thirsty…

Thank you for Tchehov. Came to-night. I am simply captivated by Chaucer just now. I have had to throw a bow window into my coeur petit to include him with Shakespeare. Oh, dear! His Iroilus and Cressid!! And my joy at finding your remarks and your pencil-notes.

I read to-day The Iale of Chaunticleer and Madame Perlicote: it's the Pardouner's tale. Perfect in its way. But the personality—the reality of the man. How his impatience, his pleasure, the very tone rings through. It's a deep delight to read. Chaucer and Marlowe are my two at present. I don't mean there's any comparison between them. But I read Hero and Leander last night. That's incredibly lovely. But how extremely amusing Chapman's finish is! Taking up that magical poem and putting it into a bodice and skirt. It's v. funny.