Helen came up this morning but spent all her time in Florence’s room. She wanted one to advise her whether she ought to go home this summer, but I told her I couldn’t. She must do what she thought best.
The manager sent in his bill and asked me 8 frs. a day for this room instead of 7 and half a franc for service in sending meals up also, 6 francs for bringing up trunk. Florence made him take off the franc in the day. It is all right - I expect to be cheated and should be disappointed I suppose if I wasn’t.
Got up after lunch and sat in Florence’s room while mine was being cleaned. She read me letters from Mrs. Brown (whom she met in Carmel and who is in Japan) and from Mildred and I read her the one I received today from my Florence.
I don’t like the food here, detest it to be frank. I live principally on bread and milk. Have begun The Price of Lis Doris by Maarten Maartens.*
Knit a lot on my slipper. Didn’t like the shape and ripped it out.
Eighth day in bed.
**Published in 1909, this is the story of a Dutch peasant boy who becomes a famous painter, but whose fame is stolen from him by a wealthy amateur under whose protection his career has been successfully launched.
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