As I once said in a noted work, "Greece, Mrs.Morris, restores all your lost illusions." For the last week I have been back in the days of Conrad, the Corsair, and "Oh, Maid of Athens, ere We Part." I have been riding over wind-swept hills and mountains topped with snow, and with sheep and goats and wild flowers of every color spreading for acres, and in a land where every man dresses by choice like a grand opera brigand, and not only for photographic purposes.

I have been on the move all the time, chasing in the rear of armies that turn back as soon as I approach and apologize for disappointing me of a battle, or riding to the scene of a battle that never comes off, or hastening to a bombardment that turns out to be an attack on an empty fort.
I live on brown bread and cheese and goat's milk and sleep like a log in shepherds' huts.

It is so beautiful that I almost grudge the night.
Nora and Mother could take this trip as safely as a regiment and would see things out of fairyland.

And such adventures! Late in life I am at last having adventures and honors heaped upon me.

I was elected a captain of a band of brigands who had been watching a mountain pass for a month, and as it showed no signs of running away had taken to dancing on the green.