Chalet Blumenthal, Montreux. Friday. Dearest Mother. Yesterday morning when I got up it was raining, so as there was no hope of doing anything, I packed up and left Zermatt at 11 getting here about 6. It's a perfectly enchanting place, high up on a green hillside above the Lake of Geneva [Léman, Lac], about an hour's drive from Montreux. The house is exactly right, with deep verandahs and very comfy chairs and lots of books - all quite simple and very luxurious. They seem to bring all their London staff out with them for I was greeted by the familiar round form of the butler. They are most friendly and affectionate and it is charming being with them. The party is the two Bs. [Blumenthal], a very old aunt called Mrs Connell (I think) and a cousin, a Mrs Macmillan. I've spent the morning lying on a verandah and reading and this afternoon I'm going for an enormous walk up the hills behind. The chalet stands in a half wild garden with paths winding round the hill and great tangled beds of cannas and dahlias and geraniumns in front of the house - a mass of reds and scarlets. I think I shall probably stay till Monday, then I shall be in London for a day or two and go to Sir Alfred over the following Sunday.
It's still cloudy and the high mountains are covered so I was right to come down. Ever your affectionate daughter Gertrude