I settled down in Paris and began to write a play.I led a very regular life,working in the morning,and in the afternoon lounging about the gardens of the Luxembourg or sauntering through the streets.I spent long hours in the Louvre,the most friendly of all galleries and the most convenient for meditation;or idled on the quays,fingering secondhand books that I never meant to buy.I read a page here and there,and made acquaintance with a great many authors whom I was content to know thus desultorily.In the evenings I went to see my friends.I looked in often on the Stroeves,and sometimes shared their modest fare.Dirk Stroeve flattered himself on his skill in cooking Italian dishes,and I confess that his spaghetti were very much better than his pictures.It was a dinner for a king when he brought in a huge dish of it,succulent with tomatoes,and we ate it together with the good household bread and a bottle of red wine.I grew more intimate with Blanche Stroeve,and I think,because I was English and she knew few English people,she was glad to see me.She was pleasant and simp......