Found out

Friday, January 15th., Hotel Matignon, Paris.

The weather here is a great nuisance, as it is apparently in England. It has been very cold, and last week it snowed heavily. And we were only just emerging from flu! Today though is beautiful, but it won't 'stay put' I feel sure.

Still, we go to the theatre every night, and lunch and dine with friends, or they with us. I have seen five things including the big revue at the Casino de Paris, and I haven't yet seen one piece at which I was not most markedy bored. But the acting is marvellously better than London acting; it is superb. I have had the august visits of Andre Gide, James Joyce, and Valery Larbaud almost all at once. Joyce is nearly blind, and totally self-centred; a very strong personality indeed. I should hardly like to be his wife. He looks quite boyish, but has two adult children, one married; and still a strong Irish accent.

I am thinking of writing a story. I must do something to keep the wolf out of the hotel! The hotel is very good - and cheap. We like it better than ever before. I saw the outskirts of Joffre's funeral procession last Wednesday, and could write a diverting article thereon, but I am too idle. And now the hotel has found out at last who I am. I mean the management of the hotel has found out. Which is a pity because I have always come here disguised as E.A.B. But when celebrated persons arrive and ask for A. B. the cat is sooner or later bound to leap out of the bag. It has done.

Jo Davidson is nearly finished working on my bust, and he is going on to 'do' Gide. I shall thank god when it is finished.