g I think, and I hate the critical attitude of mind because all the time I know what a humbug I am, and ask myself what right I have to dictate what's good and bad, when I couldn't,probably, do as well myself!
Please think over in your own mind some serious subject that wants writing about, and tell me when we next meet. I am a lady in search of a job at present—that is a good large ambitious subject to which to devote the next ten years of my life. I asked somebody who knows about such things, and he advised history of some kind, and added “When you're 70， you will begin to put it on paper”. Really I can't guarantee that I shall be in a fit state for putting it on paper, when I am 70; but these little considerations didn't seem to occur to him where such a thing as history is concerned.
We came down here yesterday, after 10 days of fog in London. You see how delicately I tell you the news of the metropolis: were you picking roses and walking about under a Parasol all the time! Here we saw the sun for the first time—at any rate what was left of the sun, as it was just setting. However it rose all right this morning, as healthy as possible. It is the loveliest place. When you want to build another cottage, build one here. We have Beech trees practically poking their heads in at the front door—at least Adrian says he can smell them in the drawing room, and Forest ponies come when you call them—and Thoby saw a cow chasing a Fox in a field last night in the moonlight. This morning— I don't know that the fox has anything to do with it—he shaved off his moustache—in the hope of looking more like a lawyer. Nessa and I have hired bicycles: my front wheel went off like a pistol this afternoon, and has a great gash in its side. I don't know why I have written such a long letter when you didn't really particularly want it, but there are no books, and when I see a pen and ink, I can't help taking to it, as some people do to gin.