I have just been writing some Rhymes of mine into one of the Sisters’ books—in return for her lending me some Kipling books! I get on like a house on fire with these ‘sisters.’ The ‘night sister’ is my great pal. We have great talks when she comes round of nights. [7] It was Rouen over again, without the revels or the sights: nothing for it but to make the best of several more days’ unwelcome grace. This Oscar did by sleeping prodigiously while he could, reading and writing to his heart’s content, and presently exploring the green peace of the surrounding country. His love of Nature, always intense, was indeed never more demonstrative than towards the end of this involuntary rest, when they let him roam as he liked but would not pass him for the front. The weather was ‘divine’; more than once he took in fresh stores of sleep ‘under the blue sky and boiling sun’ (the last thing a normal Oscar would have done by day); finally, he heard of some fishing at ‘a charming little village’ near by, procured cheap tackle and ‘had a perfectly heavenly time there,’ though not without martial qualms as to the propriety of the proceeding. Twice or thrice he went, catching nothing for his sins, till at last ‘the angelic French people insisted on my taking a trout, which they had caught themselves that morning, and exhibiting it at the village inn as my catch! They were awfully tickled.’ He was not, however, the only sinner; at least one C.O. kept him in countenance (‘the old boy quite keen—had sent to good old Hardy’s especially for a new rod!!’). Yet ‘it doesn’t look well,[8] and ‘it seems all wrong,’ and we were not to ‘say anything of this to other people.’ This afternoon [his last] I and a Gordon Highlander took a taxi down to Criel—where I spent 3 hrs. (glorious) fishing—weather more heavenly than ever—no fish—but one of the most delightful afternoons I have ever spent. Oh! it was heavenly down there! I have got the address for future occasions!! We had a top-hole drink of cider—real home-made stuff—at the local inn by the river—then had a big tea on the way back.... This week will be a very happy one to look back on in one way. It still is—to us. [9] II All the actual warfare he had seen as yet was a shower of shell (‘coming in one after the other, like cocoa-nuts on Epsom Race Course’) in a certain market-place at the end of April. Three weeks later he found the same thing happening at the same place, and put it in his letter with the same gusto: