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186 S.9 S.10 M.11 T12 Wednesday, July 4, 1928 [[strikethrough]] Thursday [[/strikethrough]] Friday, Aug. 8 - August 19th 1930 Juan-les-Pins The Provençal at Juan-les-Pins is a luxurious hotel, with impossible service. Juan-les-Pins is the queerest place I have ever seen. It is like a three-ring circus, like a high-class Coney Island, like a thousand things rolled into one. And it seems to be a world in itself with its own people, its own costumes, its own morals. A bit decadent, very luxorious, very crazy it is in a little bay where the tall, brushlike pines [[strikethrough]] go [[/strikethrough]] reach to the blue, blue sea. It abounds in beautiful women in gay and bizarre and sparse pyjamas, with red finger-nails and reder toe-nails. Cortasannes sit at tables and watch eagerly the well-groomed men. Fairies flit from beach to table to cock-tails. One eats, drinks, bathes, dances and flirts. That is all – that is everything – that is Juan-les-Pins. Larry Wolfe came to meet us, as fat, as silly, as jovial as ever. At first he tried to tell me he liked me still, but it seemed a little foolish – and it was. He annoyed us at meal, at the beach – always. Mother was obviously disappointed. I met Hubert [[?Eloas]], Johnny Freeman's roommate, who was very young and negative, but a thoraly nice person. One evening we went to the Casino - La Boule: drinking, dancing – and suddenly, sitting at a table all by himself, staring ahead, looking sad was Tommy. 187 [[strikethrough]] Thursday, July 5, 1928 [[/strikethrough]] Never has my heart beat so – never have I been as excited as when I went over to him. We sat down with him. His story was simple. They had been at Mallorca – Alcudia – (when we were) when his father suddenly died. Bob and Mrs. Greenough sailed home leaving Tommy with his friend Pat Healy to sell the yacht. I couldn't help feeling for him all my old affection and desire to kiss him. Obviously our relationship centered on the physical, but there was something more. The next day he and I went out to a rock and sat on it – talking. He explained to me again that he wrote the letter because I seemed to be serious. But I knew it was not serious I had been, but a little idiotic. That evening with a full moon we sat on a wall looking over the sea. I knew then that I had grown-up a bit. I knew I did not love him as I love Bob, but that because I had loved him there was something still holding us to-gether. I felt terribly sorry for him – so earnest, so sad, and so absolutely sincere. Contrary to what I thought he had not kissed many girls – never liked anyone else as well as me – and still likes me. We talked, I told him about Bob, we kissed each other. And there was a sort of tender affection between us, deep and sincere. The next night we talked again, and he told me his dreams about the South Sea Ilsas. Someday I must go there, between Rupert Brookes description and Tommy's dreams, it sounds
