In Tuscany they had a quiet and splendid autumn. The vintage, though not abundant, was unusually fine in quality. The white oxen plodded at their leisure with wagon-loads to fill the Mirenda cellars. After misty mornings the sun came hot, and throughout the cool nights the thick stone walls of the villa held the daytime warmth. The woods were dotted with the small wild cyclamen—the hovering yet downward-looking flowers that perhaps Lawrence loved best next to the open-faced rock rose and the luminous white campion. Lawrence, who never minded not working for a time, took things easy, went for walks alone among the hills and pondered on the lost Etruscans. He seems even to have gone on another gentle little Etruscan tour, this time with Mr. Brewster. For neighbours he had the Gair Wilkinsons—Mr. Wilkinson of the puppet show and the red beard, ‘king of all the beavers,’ as Lawrence wrote to me,—gentle and pleasant folk to drop in upon. It was his usual state, before the inception of a new undertaking.

And of course the Lawrences had visitors. When did the Lawrences not have visitors?—except in Australia, and there only because they did not stay long enough. The Aldingtons came to stay. And towards the end of October, ‘Aldous Huxley, a writer, and his wife came for the day, in their fine new car,’ as he put it in a letter to Ada.