24 February 1922

Victoria Palace Hotel, Paris

I have broken open this letter to say after two mornings spent at the Post Office we have managed to get second parcel & found it contained l belt, l pr stockings. If it wasn't comic it would be too much of a good thing. Its a sight to make the evings themselves look down. There was a letter from you, too. I don't believe in your shivering & shaking because of my barks. That is fantastic. If you don't yet know the dog I keep you never will - -
   Glad to know - very glad – about the birds. Why should it be extravagance. Buy another coconut if you like. I shall look at the bills & reply in the next letter. I am ‘off' bills for today. My boxes - mythical, tantalising boxes, I ‘note' are packed to perfection. But oh - why don't they come. You torment me - show them to me, & whip them away again. I freeze, I burn for my kimono, my Anne coat. Tell Wingley to wriggle & stamp until you take them to the post.
   Roger sounds very nice. All the more reason you should knit him something. I don't care for John. I feel he was ill on purpose too, to get his parents attention away from R. That is natural enough, however.
   I don't want your old money if you do keep a pension. The whole point is - it should pay for the house & E. and then pay you.
   Thats enough of letter writing. My hand shakes because I have been writing very fast. Its not paralysis or the family wasting.
   The Lord be with you.
  [To Ida Baker, 24 February 1922.]

   I must answer your letter at once because I like it frightfully. What is it doing in London today? Here it is spring. For days past it has been warm, blue & gold, sunny, faint, languishing, soft, lovely weather. Isn't it the same over there? The reckless lift boy says "dans un mois il serait plein été". That's the kind of large remark I love the French for. They have very nearly hung out their sun blinds, they have quite turned the puddings into little ices in frills. But why cant I send some of this weather over to you? Can't it be done? Look in the glass. If there is a very bright gay sunbeam flittering over your hair I sent it from Paris, expres. At any rate you are putting out new leaves, crepe de chine ones & baby ribbons ones. The craving for a new hat is fearful in the spring. A light, crisp, fresh new curled spring hat after these winter dowdies. I suffer from it now. If I had one I should wear it in bed! But the barber is cheaper. He came yesterday and gave a coup de fer to my wool. Now its all waves on top. (I have a great tendre for barbers.)
   I not only know where your new house is. But I have been there & looked over one of three little houses in Pond Street. Three lambs they were - years and years ago before Anrep was even born. I shall call you the little Queen when you are in yours, which is a kind of mixture of you & Queen Anne. Its much better to have a tiny wax bright hive. Everything will shine there. And then suppose you want to shut it up for a time you can just pop your thimble over the chimbley and all's hidden. No good leaving those great barracks to stare house breakers in the face and shout ‘Look at me' . . . (Do you realise I am working through your letter as I write)
 [To Dorothy Brett, 26 February 1922.]