I liked it too, until it was dropped into the post-box. But, at this moment, I am vainly asking myself what had become of my brains while I was writing it. It’s the un-Susanishest letter that even _my_ undramatic pen has compassed. Think of Susan being "conscious of a desire for detachment from details!" I can as easily imagine her ordering a grilled ichthyosaurus for breakfast. Still, it’s gone. And now I shall have a week’s peace. It seems the Belgian people who have had Dupoirier’s Villa de la Mer for the season left yesterday. Dupoirier is cleaning up the blue-and-white bathing-hut on the beach. He’s going to give me the key, and, if I like, I can stay down by the sea all day, so long as the weather’s fine. _The Bathing-hut, Thursday afternoon_. This is perfect. The bright-faced sea is crooning to itself like a happy child. The day is warm. Inland, it must be torrid. I have had two dips, one snooze, and about three-quarters of a lunch. It would have been a lunch and a half if Georgette hadn’t tripped over a stone on the way down and dropped the wing of a chicken into the beck. But the prawns, and the cold veal, with sauce rémoulade, and the great big pear, were quite enough if I hadn’t grown so disgustingly greedy. Off and on, I’ve read several square yards of French newspapers since ten o’clock. There seems to be a curse resting on all newspapers that are sold for a ha’penny, never mind what country they belong to. I feel as Susan felt when she missed "a nice service" after the parish Mass at Sainte Véronique church. The best part of everything is to lie full back in the deck-chair and to look up at the larks in the sky. It’s nice, too, to gaze over the blue-green water and to know there’s a hundred miles of it between us and that worry of a Ruddington. I’m afraid he’ll write a dozen pages on Monday. But, until the poor little fellow begins kicking and screaming for his Susan to be given to him at once, I can sit here while the wind and the sun mend my nerves and smooth the past fortnight’s wrinkles out of my offended brow. _Friday night_. Henry Reginald has written. The sight of his envelope made me so angry that I nearly tore it open without waiting for Susan. After reading his outpouring I can’t altogether blame him; but I am being badly treated by Fate. Things are worse muddled than ever. He says: MY DEAR SUSAN,--Seeing my handwriting again so soon, you will think that I am flouting your wishes. Not so. After I have finished this, I promise not to write you another line till you expressly give me leave. From my own selfish point of view, I have known all along that I was foolish in pleading my cause by post instead of with the living voice. But to write seemed fairer to yourself; though I confess I could not have been easily content with letters had I known you were going to France.