I hear the guns across the channel as I write--an unceasing boom! boom! boom! That's what takes the stuff out of me and gets my inside machinery wrong.

Still, I'm gradually getting even that back to normal.

Golf and the poets are fine medicine.

I read Keats the other day, with entire forgetfulness of the guns.

Here we have a comfortable house, our own servants (as many as we need), a beautiful calm sea, a perfect air and for the present ideal weather.