It is quite useless for me to comment upon the utterly annoying circumstance of that mixup of cheque-books--Such things are fate--and fate I am beginning to believe is nothing but a reflex of our own actions. If Suzette had not been my little friend, I should not have given her eight thousand francs--but as she has been--and I did--I must stand by the consequences. After all--a man?--Well--what is the use of writing about it. I am so utterly mad and resentful that I have no words. It is Sunday morning, and this afternoon I shall hire the one motor which can be obtained here, at a fabulous price, and go into Paris. There are some books I want to get out of my bookcase--and somehow I have lost interest here. But this morning I shall go and sit in the parish church and hear Mass.--I feel so completely wretched, the music may comfort me and give me courage to forget all about Miss Sharp. And in any case there is a soothing atmosphere in a Roman Catholic church, which is agreeable. I love the French people! They are a continual tonic, if one takes them rightly. So filled with common sense, simply using sentiment as an ornament, and a relaxation; and never allowing it to interfere with the practical necessities of life. Ignorant people say they are hysterical, and over passionate--They are nothing of the kind--They believe in material things, and in the "_beau geste_." Where they require a religion, they accept a comforting one; and meanwhile they enjoy whatever comes in their way and get through disagreeables philosophically. _Vive la France!_ * * * * * I am waiting for the motor now--and trying to be resigned.--Mass did me good--I sat in a corner and kept my crutch by me. The Church itself told me stories, I tried to see it in Louis XV's time--I dare say it looked much the same, only dirtier--And life was made up with etiquette and forms and ceremonies, more exasperating than anything now. But they were ahead of us in manners, and a sense of beauty. A little child came and sat beside me for about ten minutes, and looked at me and my crutch sympathetically. "_Blessé de la guerre_," I heard her whisper to her mother--"_Comme Jean_." The organ was not bad--and before I came out I felt calmer. After all it is absurd of Miss Sharp to be disgusted about Suzette--She must know, at nearly twenty-four, and living in France, that there are Suzettes--and I am sure she is not narrow-minded in any way--What can have made her so censorious? If she took a personal interest in me it would be different, but entirely indifferent as she is, how can it matter to her?--As I write this, that hot sense of anger and rebellion arises in me--I'll have to keep saying to myself that I am in the trenches again and must not complain. I'll make Burton find out if Coralie is really staying here, and get her to dine with me to-night--Coralie always pretended to have a _béguin_ for me--even when most engaged elsewhere.