I thank you very kindly for your so humane and so interesting letter, even if I must thank you a little briefly--having but this afternoon got out of bed, to which the Doctor three days ago consigned me--for a menace of jaundice, which appears however to have been, thank heaven, averted! (I once had it, and _basta così_;) so that I am a little shaky and infirm. You give me a sense of endless things that I yearn to know more of, and I clutch hard the hope that you will indeed come to England in June. I have had--to be frank--a bad and worried and depressed and inconvenient winter--with the serpent-trail of what seemed at the time--the time you kindly offered me a princely hospitality--a tolerably ominous cardiac crisis--as to which I have since, however, got considerable information and reassurance--from the man in London most completely master of the subject--that is of the whole mystery of heart-troubles. I am definitely better of that condition of December-January, and really believe I shall be better yet; only that particular brush of the dark wing leaves one never quite the same--and I have not, I confess (with amelioration, even,) been lately very famous; (which I shouldn't mention, none the less, were it not that I really believe myself, for definite reasons, and intelligent ones, on the way to a much more complete emergence--both from the above mentioned and from other worries.) So much mainly to explain to you my singularly unsympathetic silence during a period of anxiety and discomfort on your own part which I all the while feared to be not small--but which I now see, with all affectionate participation, to have been extreme.... Sit loose and live in the day--don't borrow trouble, and remember that nothing happens as we forecast it--but always with interesting and, as it were, refreshing differences. "Tired" you must be, even you, indeed; and Paris, as I look at it from here, figures to me a great blur of intense white light in which, attached to the hub of a revolving wheel, you are all whirled round by the finest silver strings. "Mazes of heat and sound" envelop you to my wincing vision--given over as I am to a craven worship (_only_ henceforth) of peace at any price. This dusky village, all deadening grey and damp (muffling) green, meets more and more my supreme appreciation of stillness--and here, in June, you must come and find me--to let me emphasize that--appreciation!--still further. You'll rest with me here then, but don't wait for that to rest somehow--somewhere en attendant. I am afraid you won't rest much in a retreat on the Place de la Concorde. However, so does a poor old croaking barnyard fowl advise a golden eagle!...