[September, 1894.] ... Here in London it is the softest, most mellow day, and autumn is the time of year for the declining ones - as I am. Delusive spring over with its false promises over - and violent maddening summer over - another delusion of the poets. But autumn is quite true - doesn't promise to be warm, but often is - nor promise to be fine - nor does it make any promise, but fulfills the promises that the bankrupt others made - so bless it, say I. But tell me if you are better and why you were ill - was it a cold caught really in a nasty yacht? - the very word looks like the spelling of a sneeze. ...