It is quite useless for me to comment upon the utterly annoying
circumstance of that mixup of cheque-books--Such things are fate--and
fate I am beginning to believe is nothing but a reflex of our own
actions. If Suzette had not been my little friend, I should not have
given her eight thousand francs--but as she has been--and I did--I must
stand by the consequences.

After all--a man?--Well--what is the use of writing about it. I am so
utterly mad and resentful that I have no words.

It is Sunday morning, and this afternoon I shall hire the one motor
which can be obtained here, at a fabulous price, and go into Paris.
There are some books I want to get out of my bookcase--and somehow I
have lost interest here. But this morning I shall go and sit in the
parish church and hear Mass.--I feel so completely wretched, the music
may comfort me and give me courage to forget all about Miss Sharp. And
in any case there is a soothing atmosphere in a Roman Catholic church,
which is agreeable. I love the French people! They are a continual
tonic, if one takes them rightly. So filled with common sense, simply
using sentiment as an ornament, and a relaxation; and never allowing it
to interfere with the practical necessities of life. Ignorant people say
they are hysterical, and over passionate--They are nothing of the
kind--They believe in material things, and in the "beau geste." Where
they require a religion, they accept a comforting one; and meanwhile
they enjoy whatever comes in their way and get through disagreeables
philosophically. Vive la France!