tall of ceiling, which is painted at the corners with blue clouds and pink cherubim—­unmistakable Germans—­and tall of door, of which there are three, and tall of window, of which there are two.  The windows have long dark curtains of rep or something woolly, and long coffee-coloured lace curtains as well; and there’s a big green majolica stove in one corner; and there’s a dark brown wall-paper with gilt flowers on it; and an elaborate chandelier hanging from a coloured plaster rosette in the middle of the ceiling, all twisty and gilt, but it doesn’t light,—­Wanda, the maid of all work, brings me a petroleum lamp with a green glass shade to it when it gets dusk.  I’ve got a very short bed with a dark red sateen quilt on to which my sheet is buttoned a11 round, a pillow propped up so high on a wedge stuck under the mattress that I shall sleep sitting up almost straight, and then as a crowning glory the sack of feathers, which will do beautifully for holding me down when I’m having a nightmare.  In a corner, with an even greater air of being an afterthought than the bed, there’s a very tiny washstand, and pinned on the wall behind it over the part of the wallpaper I might splash on Sunday mornings when I’m supposed really to wash, is a strip of grey linen with a motto worked on it in blue wool: 

  Eigener Heerd
  Ist Goldes Werth

which is a rhyme if you take it in the proper spirit, and isn’t if you don’t.  But I love the sentiment, don’t you?  It seems peculiarly sound when one is in a room like this in a strange country.  And what I’m here for and am going to work for is an eigener Heerd, with you and me one each side of it warming our happy toes on our very own fender.  Oh, won’t it be too lovely, mother darling, to be together again in our very own home!  Able to shut ourselves in, shut our front door in the face of the world, and just say to the world, “There now.”

There’s a little looking-glass on a nail up above the eigener Heerd motto, so high that if it hadn’t found its match in me I’d only be able to see my eyebrows in it.  As it is, I do see as far as my chin.  What goes on below that I shall never know while I continue to dwell in the Lutzowstrasse.  Outside, a very long way down, for the house has high rooms right through and I’m at the top, trams pass almost constantly along the street, clanging their bells.  They sound much more aggressive than other trams I have heard, or else it is because my ears are tired tonight.  There are double windows, though, which will shut out the noise while I’m practising—­and also shut it in.  I mean to practise eight hours every day if Kloster will let me,—­twelve if needs be, so I’ve made up my mind only to write to you on Sundays; for if I don’t make a stern rule like that I shall be writing to you every day, and then what would happen to the eight hours?  I’m going to start them tomorrow, and try and get as ready as I can for the great man on Saturday.