(as I've mentioned more than once) even if I
haven't outstayed my welcome, I'm getting more than a little tired
of the entertainment provided by that "host who murders all his
guests"--the World.

If I should drop off suddenly, you will find my will in the hands
of Signor Antonio Nicolini, via Roma, Ventimiglia. He's a nice
little Italian lawyer whom I've made my man of business lately. He
has all my affairs in charge. It will be the greatest favour and
kindness you can do me, if you will take this house I loved but
never lived in. This I hope you will do for my sake--the sake of a
friend. You know you promised that day at the Rochers Rouges to
grant me a favour, and I hold you to your word. Another request I
venture to make, you must grant only if you don't find the idea
repugnant. It oughtn't to matter much to me one way or the other,
and it shall be as you choose, but I should like when my body's
cremated (that is to be done in any case) to have my ashes lie at
the south end of the garden, where some steps are cut in the rock
coming out at a wonderful viewpoint. If after death one can see
what goes on in this world, it would console me for much to know of
your coming sometimes to the Chateau Lontana, and perhaps sitting
on that old stone seat on the rock-platform at the bottom of those
steps. There is a wall of rock above the seat, and if a small niche
could be cut there for an urn, with a tablet of marble to mark the
spot, it would please my fancy. Should you decide to gratify the
whim, please have no name carved on the marble, but only a verse
you quoted that day at the Rochers Rouges. I think you told me it
was by a Scottish poet, whom you liked; and I said the words had in
them a strange undertone of music like a lullaby: the sound of the
sea, and the sadness and mystery of the sea. You will remember. It
was after luncheon was over, but we were still at the table, and
you sat with your elbow on the low wall, looking down into the
water.

You are not to suppose, though, that because I speak of the sadness
of the sea, I am sad in the thought that soon I may be gone where I
can no longer hear its voice. I am not sad, and you must not be sad
either at my talk of dying, or at my death when it comes. Think of
me, but not with sadness. Do not