look up--leaning a little over the house, and standing on
the boundary between the garden and meadow. I quite love
that tree already. Also ordinary elms, oaks--no nastier
than ordinary oaks--pear-trees, apple-trees, and a vine. No
silver birches, though. However, I must get on to my host
and hostess. I only wanted to show that it isn't the least
what we expected. Why did we settle that their house would
be all gables and wiggles, and their garden all
gamboge-coloured paths? I believe simply because we
associate them with expensive hotels--Mrs. Wilcox trailing
in beautiful dresses down long corridors, Mr. Wilcox
bullying porters, etc. We females are that unjust.

I shall be back Saturday; will let you know train
later. They are as angry as I am that you did not come too;
really Tibby is too tiresome, he starts a new mortal disease
every month. How could he have got hay fever in London?
and even if he could, it seems hard that you should give up
a visit to hear a schoolboy sneeze. Tell him that Charles
Wilcox (the son who is here) has hay fever too, but he's
brave, and gets quite cross when we inquire after it. Men
like the Wilcoxes would do Tibby a power of good. But you
won't agree, and I'd better change the subject.

This long letter is because I'm writing before
breakfast. Oh, the beautiful vine leaves! The house is
covered with a vine. I looked out earlier, and Mrs. Wilcox
was already in the garden. She evidently loves it. No
wonder she sometimes looks tired. She was watching the
large red poppies come out. Then she walked off the lawn to