Montmartre -- On my way back to Hubert's this evening who should I collide with but Celia and Ramon from Brooklyn, those friends of Paul's who stayed with us last winter in Mexico. She was having a high time, of course, but he was pinin' for the fjords, or whatever they have back in Park Slope, looking for all the world like a spaceman who wasn't sure about the atmosphere. He kept the helmet on, so to speak. A stubborn and absolute stranger. So unlike you, I think, and yet oddly reminiscent. Always the stranger, but my stranger. Kisses. -- A.

(ps -- I remember green enamel (!) but what was stolen swan?)