[Malvern. 1897. Foley House.] ... Many things here bring back early days to me - a certain kind of most depressing red-brick, blue-slated house makes me wince as I remember; but then again a bonny apple-orchard softens my heart with recollections - and so my drives go in alternate smiles and frowns - it must have been a lovely land before the houses were built. They are hopeless; as I look out of the window now the sun really lights up distance on distance that would be sweet to watch if I could see it, but I can only see the shine on the slate roofs everywhere - slate roofs and red-brick houses and dazzling green - the nastiest discord that could be - but now and then a little lowly old house of grey thatch and black-and-white walls make such a harmony that I wonder when I think what men lose and what they bear - for Maeterlinck is right and men are restless without beauty - poor things what bad shots they make trying to win it. If you only knew how sweet it is to live in a land of stone as you do. And what shall I exactly say to exactly fit the aspects of these slates and bricks - sour? That is the word and all my teeth are on edge, so when you go forth into the villages, will you love and praise them for their holy greyness -?