The morning I arrived back in Paris was a day of bitter cold, with dull clouds overhead and deep slush in the streets, I thought with a shudder of some of the cold draughty studios I had sat in, and the dread of another pneumonia loomed up large into my mind. The young doctor had warned me very earnestly against risking a second attack, lest the dreaded tuberculosis might follow, as it so often did in young girls.
The next week I was busy moving into another little flat I had found in Autueil. Then I thought of the card I must send round to my former patrons notifying them that I had resumed work, but every time I sat down to draw it up nothing eventuated. Somehow I felt I simply could not return to my old calling. If I did, for one thing I knew I must break with my good friend, Monsieur
