Читать книгу The Greatest Works of E. M. Delafield (Illustrated Edition) - E. M. Delafield - Страница 18

When she was living with her dear Edgar in his East End parish, many years ago, she invariably asked him to let her teach the boys. Not the girls. The boys. Just the boys. And Edgar used to reply: These boys are the Roughest of the Rough. They are beyond a gentlewoman's control. But Mrs. W.-G. would simply repeat: Give me the boys, Edgar. And Edgar—her beloved could never hold out against her—eventually gave her the boys. And what was the result?

The result was that the boys—though still the Roughest of the Rough—became tamed. A lady's influence, was the verdict of Edgar, in less than a month. One dear lad—a scallywag from the dockside if ever there was one, says Mrs. W.-G. musingly—once made use of Bad Language in her presence. And the other poor lads almost tore him to pieces, dear fellows. Chivalry. Just chivalry. The Beloved always said that she seemed to call it out.

She herself—ha-ha-ha—thinks it was because she was such A Tiny—it made them feel protective. Little Mother Sunshine they sometimes called her—but that might have been because in those days her curlywig was gold, not silver.

Even the young Colonial is looking rather stunned by this time, and only ejaculates very feebly when Mrs. W.-G. stops for breath. As for myself, a kind of coma has overtaken me and I find myself singing in an undertone "South of the Border, down Mexico Way"—to distant gramophone accompaniment.

Am relieved at Cash Register what seems like weeks later—but is really only two hours—and retire to Buckingham Street.

Curious sense of unreality pervades everything—cannot decide if this is due to extraordinary and unnatural way in which the war is being conducted, without any of the developments we were all led to expect, or to lack of sleep, or merely to prolonged dose of old Mrs. Winter-Gammon's conversation.

Debate the question lying in hot bath, wake up with fearful start although am practically positive that I haven't been asleep, and think how easily I might have drowned—recollections of George Joseph Smith and Brides in the Bath follow—crawl into bed and immediately become mentally alert and completely wide awake.

This state of things endures until I get up and dress and make myself tea and hot buttered toast.

Timid tap at flat door interrupts me, and, to my great surprise, find Muriel—curls and all—outside. She explains that Serena has said that I have a bathroom and that I am very kind and that there is no doubt whatever of my allowing her to have a bath. Is this all right?

Am touched and flattered by this trusting spirit, and assure her that it is.

(Query: Are my services to the Empire in the present world-war to take the form of supplying hot baths to those engaged in more responsible activities? Answer: At present, apparently, yes.)

Muriel comes out from bathroom more decorative than ever—curls evidently natural ones—and we have agreeable chat concerning all our fellow workers, about whom our opinions tally. She then drifts quietly out again, saying that she is going to have a really marvellous time this afternoon, because she and a friend of hers have been saving up all their petrol and they are actually going to drive out to Richmond Park. Remembrance assails me, after she has gone, that Serena has said that Muriel's parents own a Rolls-Royce and are fabulously wealthy. Have dim idea of writing short, yet brilliant, article on New Values in War-Time—but nothing comes of it.

Instead, write a letter to Robert—not short, but not brilliant either. Also instructions to Aunt Blanche about letting Cook have the Sweep, if that's what she wants, and suggesting blackberry jelly if sugar will run to it, and not allowing her, on any account, to make pounds and pounds of marrow jam which she is certain to suggest and which everybody hates and refuses to touch.

P.S.: I have seen Mrs. Winter-Gammon quite a lot, and she seems very energetic indeed and has sent Aunt Blanche her love. Can quite understand why Aunt Blanche has said that she will not agree to share a flat with her again when the war is over. Mrs. W.-G. has dynamic personality and is inclined to have a devitalising effect on her surroundings.

Re-read postscript and am not at all sure that it wouldn't have been better to say in plain English that old Mrs. W.-G. is more aggravating than ever, and Aunt Blanche is well out of sharing a flat with her.

Ring up Rose later on and enquire whether she has yet got a job.

No, nothing like that. Rose has sent in her name and qualifications to the British Medical Association, and has twice been round to see them, and she has received and filled in several forms, and has also had a letter asking if she is prepared to serve with His Majesty's Forces abroad with the rank of Major, and has humorously replied Yes, certainly, if H.M. Forces don't mind about her being a woman, and there the question, at present, remains.

All Rose's medical colleagues are equally unoccupied and she adds that the position of the Harley Street obstetricians is particularly painful, as all their prospective patients have evacuated themselves from London and the prospect of their talents being utilised by the Services is naturally non-existent.

What, asks Rose, about myself?

Make the best show I can with the Canteen—position on Cash Register obviously quite a responsible one in its way—but Rose simply replies that it's too frightful the way we're all hanging about wasting our time and doing nothing whatever.

Retire from this conversation deeply depressed.

October 9th.—Mrs. Peacock electrifies entire Canteen by saying that she has met a man who says that the British Government is going to accept Hitler's peace terms.

Can only reply that he must be the only man in England to have adopted this view—and this is supported by everyone within hearing, Serena going so far as to assert that man must be a Nazi propaganda-agent as nobody else could have thought of anything so absurd.

Mrs. P. looks rather crushed, but is not at all resentful, only declaring that man is not a Nazi propaganda-agent, but she thinks perhaps he just said it so as to be unlike anybody else—in which he has succeeded.

Man forthwith dismissed from the conversation by everybody.

No further incident marks the day until supper-time, when customary uproar of radio, gramophone, darts contest and newly imported piano (situated just outside Women's Rest-room) has reached its climax.

Ginger-headed stretcher-bearer then comes up to order two fried eggs, two rashers, one sausage-roll and a suet dumpling, and asks me if I've heard the latest.

Prepare to be told that Dr. Goebbels has been executed at the behest of his Führer at the very least, but news turns out to be less sensational. It is to the effect that the underworld has now been issued with shrouds, to be kept in the back of each car. Am dreadfully inclined to laugh at this, but stretcher-bearer is gloom personified, and I feel that my reaction is most unsuitable and immediately stifle it.

Stretcher-bearer then reveals that his chief feeling at this innovation is one of resentment. He was, he declares, in the last war, and nobody had shrouds then, but he supposes that this is to be a regular Gentleman's Business.

Condole with him as best I can, and he takes his supper and walks away with it, still muttering very angrily about shrouds.

October 10th.—Letter received from extremely distinguished woman, retired from important Civil Service post less than a year ago, and with whom I am only in a position to claim acquaintance at all because she is friend of Rose's. She enquires—very dignified phraseology—if I can by any chance tell her of suitable war work.

Can understand use of the word suitable when she adds, though without apparent rancour, entire story of recent attempts to serve her country through the medium of local A.R.P. where she lives. She has filled up numbers of forms, and been twice interviewed by very refined young person of about nineteen, and finally summoned to nearest Council Offices for work alleged to be in need of experienced assistance.

Work takes the form of sitting in very chilly entrance-hall of Council Offices directing enquirers to go Upstairs and to the Right for information about Fuel Control, and Downstairs and Straight Through for Food Regulations.

Adds—language still entirely moderate—that she can only suppose the hall-porter employed by Council Offices has just been called up.

Am shocked and regretful, but in no position to offer any constructive suggestion.

Letter also reaches me from Cook—first time we have ever corresponded—saying that Winnie's mother has sent a message that Winnie's young sister came back from school with earache which has now gone to her foot and they think it may be rheumatic fever and can Winnie be spared for a bit to help. Cook adds that she supposes the girl had better go, and adds P.S.: The Butcher has took Winnie and dropped her the best part of the way. P.P.S.: Madam, what about the Sweep?

Am incredibly disturbed by this communication on several counts. Winnie's absence more than inconvenient, and Cook herself will be the first person to complain of it bitterly. Have no security that Winnie's mother's idea of "a bit" will correspond with mine.

Cannot understand why no letter from Aunt Blanche. Can Cook have made entire arrangement without reference to her? Allusion to Sweep also utterly distracting. Why so soon again? Or, alternatively, did Aunt Blanche omit to summon him at Cook's original request, made almost immediately after my departure? If so, for what reason, and why have I been told nothing?

Can think of nothing else throughout very unsatisfactory breakfast, prepared by myself, in which electric toaster alternately burns the bread or produces no impression on it whatever except for three pitch-black perpendicular lines.

Tell myself that I am being foolish, and that all will be cleared up in the course of a post or two, and settle down resolutely to Inside Information column of favourite daily paper, which I read through five times only to find myself pursuing long, imaginary conversation with Cook at the end of it all.

Decide that the only thing to do is to telephone to Aunt Blanche this morning and clear up entire situation.

Resume Inside Information.

Decide that telephoning is not only expensive, but often unsatisfactory as well, and letter will serve the purpose better.

Begin Inside Information all over again.

Imaginary conversation resumed, this time with Aunt Blanche.

Decide to telephone, and immediately afterwards decide not to telephone.

Telephone bell rings and strong intuitional flash comes over me that decision has been taken out of my hands. (Just as well.)

Yes?

Am I Covent Garden? says masculine voice.

No, I am not.

Masculine voice ejaculates—tone expressive of annoyance, rather than regret for having disturbed me—and conversation closes.

Mysterious unseen compulsion causes me to dial TRU and ask for home number.

Die now cast.

After customary buzzing and clicking, Robert's voice says Yes? and is told by Exchange to go ahead.

We do go ahead and I say Is he all right? to which he replies, sounding rather surprised, that he's quite all right. Are the children, Aunt Blanche and the maids all right? What about Winnie?

Robert says, rather vaguely, that he believes Winnie has gone home for a day or two, but they seem to be Managing, and do I want anything special?

Answer in the weakest possible way that I only wanted to know if they were All Right, and Robert again reiterates that they are and that he will be writing to-night, but this A.R.P. business takes up a lot of time. He hopes the Canteen work is proving interesting and not too tiring, and he thinks that Hitler is beginning to find out that he's been playing a mug's game.

So do I, and am just about to elaborate this theme when I remember the Sweep and enquire if I can speak to Aunt Blanche.

Robert replies that he thinks she's in the bath.

Telephone pips three times, and he adds that, if that's all, perhaps we'd better ring off.

Entire transaction strikes me as having been unsatisfactory in the extreme.

October 11th.—Nothing from Aunt Blanche except uninformative picture postcard of Loch in Scotland—in which I take no interest whatever—with communication to the effect that the trees are turning colour and looking lovely and she has scarcely ever before seen so many holly-berries out so early. The children brought in some beautiful branches of beech-leaves on Sunday and Aunt Blanche hopes to put them in glycerine so that they will last in the house for months. The news seems to her good on the whole. The Russians evidently not anxious for war, and Hitler, did he but know it, up a gum-tree. Much love.

Spend much time debating question as to whether I had not better go home for the week-end.

October 12th.—Decide finally to ask Mrs. Peacock whether I can be spared for ten days in order to go home on urgent private affairs. Am unreasonably reluctant to make this suggestion in spite of telling myself what is undoubtedly the fact: that Canteen will easily survive my absence without disaster.

Mrs. Peacock proves sympathetic but tells me that application for leave will have to be made direct to Commandant. Can see she expects me to receive this announcement with dismay, so compel myself to reply Certainly, with absolute composure.

(Do not believe that she is taken in for one second.)

Debate inwardly whether better to tackle Commandant instantly, before having time to dwell on it, or wait a little and get up more spirit. Can see, however, that latter idea is simply craven desire to postpone the interview and must not on any account be entertained seriously.

Serena enters Canteen just as I am preparing to brace myself and exclaims that I look very green in the face, do I feel ill?

Certainly not. I am perfectly well. Does Serena know if Commandant is in her office, as I wish to speak to her.

Oh, says Serena, that accounts for my looks. Yes, she is.

I say Good, in very resolute tone, and go off. Fragmentary quotations from Charge of the Light Brigade come into my mind, entirely of their own accord.

Serena runs after me and says she'll come too, and is it anything very awful?

Not at all. It is simply that I feel my presence to be temporarily required at home, and am proposing to go down there for ten days. This scheme to be subjected to Commandant's approval as a mere matter of courtesy.

At this Serena laughs so much that I find myself laughing also, though perhaps less whole-heartedly, and I enquire whether Serena supposes Commandant will make a fuss? Serena replies, cryptically, that it won't exactly be a fuss, but she's sure to be utterly odious—which is precisely what I anticipate myself.

Temporary respite follows, as Serena, after pressing her nose against glass panel of office window, reports Commandant to be engaged in tearing two little Red Cross nurses limb from limb.

Cannot feel that this bodes well for me, but remind myself vigorously that I am old enough to be Commandant's mother and that, if necessary, shall have no hesitation in telling her so.

(Query: Would it impress her if I did? Answer: No.)

Office door flies open and Red Cross nurse comes out, but leaves fellow victim within.

Serena and I, with one voice, enquire what is happening, and are told in reply that Her Highness is gone off of the deep end, that's what. Long and very involved story follows of which nothing is clear to me except that Red Cross nurse declares that she isn't going to be told by anyone that she doesn't know her job, and have we any of us ever heard of Lord Horder?

Yes, we not unnaturally have.

Then who was it, do we suppose, who told her himself that he never wished to see better work in the ward than what hers was?

Office door, just as she is about to reply to this rhetorical question, flies open once more and second white veil emerges, which throws first one into still more agitation and they walk away arm-in-arm, but original informant suddenly turns her head over her shoulder and finishes up reference to Lord Horder with very distinctly-enunciated monosyllable: E.

Serena and I giggle and Commandant, from within the office, calls out to someone unseen to shut that door at once, there's far too much noise going on and is this a girls' school, or an Organisation of national importance?

Should like to reply that it's neither.

Rather draughty pause ensues, and I ask Serena if she knows how the underworld manages to be chilly and stuffy at one and the same time—but she doesn't.

Suggests that I had better knock at the door, which I do, and get no reply.

Harder, says Serena.

I make fresh attempt, again unsuccessful, and am again urged to violence by Serena. Third effort is much harder than I meant it to be and sounds like onslaught from a battering-ram. It produces a very angry command to Come In! and I do so.

Commandant is, as usual, smoking and writing her head off at one and the same time, and continues her activities without so much as a glance in my direction.

I contemplate the back of her head—coat collar wants brushing—and reflect that I could (a) throw something at her—nearest available missile is cardboard gas-mask container, which I don't think heavy enough; (b) walk out again; (c) tell her clearly and coldly that I have No Time to Waste.

Am bracing myself for rather modified form of (c) when she snaps out enquiry as to what I want.

I want to leave London for a week or ten days.

Commandant snaps again. This time it is Why.

Because my presence is required in my own house in Devonshire.

Devonshire? replies Commandant in offensively incredulous manner. What do I mean by Devonshire?

Cannot exactly explain why, but at this precise moment am suddenly possessed by spirit of defiance and hear myself replying in superbly detached tones that I am not here to waste either her time or my own and should be much obliged if she would merely note that I shall not be giving my services at Canteen for the next ten days.

Am by no means certain that thunderbolt from Heaven will not strike me where I stand, but it is withheld, and sensation of great exhilaration descends upon me instead.

Commandant looks at me—first time she has ever done so in the whole of our association—and says in tones of ice that I am wasting her time, as the Canteen Time-Sheet is entirely in the hands of Mrs. Peacock and I ought to have made my application for leave through her.

She then slams rubber stamp violently onto inoffensive piece of paper and turns her back again.

I rejoin Serena, to whom I give full account of entire episode—probably too full, as Serena—after highly commending me—says that I couldn't have made half such a long speech in the time. Realise that I couldn't, and that imagination has led me astray, and withdraw about half of what I have told her, but the other half accurate and much applauded by Serena and subsequently by Mrs. Peacock.

Mrs. P. also says that Of course I must go home, and Devonshire sounds lovely, and she wishes she lived there herself. Do I know Ilfracombe? Yes, quite well. Does Mrs. Peacock? No, but she's always heard that it's lovely. I agree that it is, and conversation turns to macaroni-and-tomato, again on the menu to-night, bacon now off, and necessity of holding back the brown bread as it will be wanted for to-morrow's breakfast.

Serena orders coffee and stands drinking it, and says that there is to be a lecture on Fractures at midnight. I ask why midnight, and she replies vaguely, Oh, because they think it'll be dark then.

Am unable to follow this, and do not attempt to do so.

News percolates through Canteen—cannot at all say how—that I am going to Devonshire for ten days and fellow workers tell me how fortunate I am, and enquire whether I know Moretonhampstead, Plymouth Hoe, and the road between Axminster and Charmouth.

Old Granny Bo-Peep appears as usual—have strong suspicion that she never leaves the underworld at all, but stays there all day and all night—and romps up to me with customary air of roguish enjoyment.

What is this, she asks, that a little bird has just told her? That one of our very latest recruits is looking back from the plough already? But that's only her fun—she's delighted, really, to hear that I'm to have a nice holiday in the country. All the way down to Devon, too! Right away from the war, and hard work, and a lovely rest amongst the birds and the flowers.

Explain without any enthusiasm that my presence is required at home and that I am obliged to take long and probably crowded journey in order to look into various domestic problems, put them in order, and then return to London as soon as I possibly can.

Old Mrs. W.-G. says she quite understands, in highly incredulous tones, and proceeds to a long speech concerning her own ability to work for days and nights at a stretch without ever requiring any rest at all. As for taking a holiday—well, such a thing never occurs to her. It just simply doesn't ever cross her mind. It isn't that she's exactly stronger than anybody else—on the contrary, she's always been supposed to be rather fragile—but while there's work to be done, she just has to do it, and the thought of rest never occurs to her.

Beloved Edgar used to say to her: One day you'll break down. You must break down. You cannot possibly go on like this and not break down. But she only laughed and went on just the same. She's always been like that, and she hopes she always will be.

Feel sure that hope will probably be realised

Evening proceeds as usual. Mock air-raid alarm is given at ten o'clock, and have the gratification of seeing Serena race for her tin hat and fly back with it on her head, looking very affairée indeed.

Canteen workers, who are not expected to take any part in manoeuvres, remain at their posts and seize opportunity to drink coffee, clear the table, and tell one another that we are all to be disbanded quite soon and placed under the Home Office—that we are all to be given the sack—that we are all to be put into blue dungarees at a cost of eleven shillings per head—and similar pieces of intelligence.

Stretcher-bearers presently reappear and story goes round that imaginary casualty having been placed on stretcher and left there with feet higher than his head, has been taken off to First Aid Post in a dead faint and hasn't come round yet.

Rather sharp words pass between one of the cooks and young Canteen voluntary helper in flowered cretonne overall, who declares that her orders are not receiving proper attention. Cook asserts that all orders are taken in rotation and Flowered Cretonne replies No, hers aren't. Deadlock appears to have been reached and they glare at one another through the hatch.

Two more cooks in background of kitchen come nearer in support of colleague, or else in hopes of excitement, but Cretonne Overall contents. herself with repeating that she must say it seems rather extraordinary, and then retiring to tea-urn, which I think feeble.

She asks for a cup of tea—very strong and plenty of sugar—which I give her and tells me that she doesn't think this place is properly run, just look how the floor wants sweeping, and I am impelled to point out that there is nothing to prevent her from taking a broom and putting this right at once.

Cretonne Overall gives me a look of concentrated hatred, snatches up her cup of tea and walks away with it to furthest table in the room. Can see her throwing occasional glances of acute dislike in my direction throughout remainder of the night.

Serena returns—tells me that the feature of the practice has been piled-up bodies and that these have amused themselves by hooking their legs and arms together quite inextricably and giving the first-aid men a good deal of trouble, but everyone has seen the funny side of it and it's been a very merry evening altogether.

Better, she adds gloomily, than the concert which we are promised for next week is likely to be.

She then drinks two cups of coffee, eats half a bar of chocolate and a banana, and announces that she is going to bed.

Presently my relief arrives: tiny little creature with bobbed brown hair, who has taken duty from 10 P.M. to 10 A.M. every night since war started. I express admiration at her self-sacrifice, and she says No, it's nothing, because she isn't a voluntary worker at all—she gets paid.

As this no doubt means that she is working part of the day as well, can only feel that grounds for admiration are, if anything, redoubled and tell her so, but produce no effect whatever, as she merely replies that there's nothing to praise her for, she gets paid.

She adds, however, that it is a satisfaction to her to be doing something Against that Man. She said to Dad at the very beginning: Dad, I want to do something against him. So she took this job, and she put herself down at the Hospital for blood-transfusion, and they've took some from her already and will be wanting more later. In this way, she repeats, she can feel she's doing something Against Him—which is what she wants.

Am much struck by contrast between her appearance—tiny little thing, with very pretty smile—and extreme ferocity of her sentiments.

We exchange Good-nights and I collect my coat from Women's Rest-room where it hangs on a peg, in the midst of camp-beds.

On one of them, under mountain of coverings, huge mop of curls is just visible—no doubt belonging to Muriel.

Serena is sitting bolt-upright on adjacent bed, legs straight out in front of her in surely very uncomfortable position, writing letters. This seems to me most unnatural hour at which to conduct her correspondence, which apparently consists largely of picture postcards.

Wireless outside is emitting jazz with tremendous violence, engines are running, and a group of persons with surely very loud voices are exchanging views about the Archbishop of York. They are of opinion, after listening to His Grace's broadcast the other night, that Where a Man like that is wanted is In the Cabinet.

Agree with them, and should like to go out and say so, adding suggestion that he would make first-class Prime Minister—but Serena intervenes with plaintive observation that, as they all agree with one another and keep on saying That's Right, she can't imagine why they must go on discussing it instead of letting her get a little sleep.

At this I feel the moment has come for speech which I have long wished to deliver, and I suggest to Serena that she has undertaken a form of war service which is undoubtedly going to result in her speedy collapse from want of sleep, fresh air, and properly-regulated existence generally. Wouldn't it be advisable to do something more rational?

There isn't anything, says Serena positively. Nobody wants anybody to do anything, and yet if they do nothing they go mad.

Can see that it will take very little to send Serena into floods of tears, and have no wish to achieve this result, or to emulate Darling's methods with Commandant, so simply tell her that I suppose she knows her own business best—(not that I do, for one minute)—and depart from the underworld.

October 13th.—Countryside bears out all that Aunt Blanche has written of its peaceful appearance, autumn colouring, and profusion of scarlet berries prematurely decorating the holly-trees.

Train very crowded and arrives thirty-five minutes late, and I note that my feelings entirely resemble those of excited small child returning home for the holidays. Robert has said that he cannot meet me owing to A.R.P. duties but is there at the station, and seems pleased by my return, though saying nothing openly to that effect.

We drive home—everything looks lovely and young colt in Home Farm field has miraculously turned into quite tall black horse. Tell Robert that I feel as if I had been away for years, and he replies that it is two and a half weeks since I left.

I ask after the evacuees, the puppy, Aunt Blanche, Cook and the garden and tell Robert about Serena, the Canteen, the Blowfields and their cosmopolitan friend—Robert of opinion that he ought to be interned at once—and unresponsive attitude of the Ministry of Information.

What does Robert think about Finland? Envoy now in Moscow. Robert, in reply, tells me what he thinks, not about Finland, but about Stalin. Am interested, but not in any way surprised, having heard it all before a great many times.

As we drive in at the gate Marigold and Margery dart round the house—and I have brief, extraordinary hallucination of having returned to childish days of Robin and Vicky. Cannot possibly afford to dwell on this illusion for even one second, and get out of the car with such haste that suit-case falls with me and most of its contents are scattered on the gravel, owing to defective lock.

Robert not very pleased.

Marigold and Margery look pink and cheerful, Miss Doreen Fitzgerald comes up from garden, knitting, and says I'm Very Welcome, certainly I am. (Should never be surprised if she offered to show me my room.)

Winnie appears at hall door, at which I exclaim, Oh, are you back, Winnie? and then feel it would be no more than I deserve if she answered No, she's in Moscow with the Finnish Envoy at the Kremlin—but this flight of satire fortunately does not occur to her, and she smiles very cheerfully and says, Yes, Mum thought it might be a long job with Bessie, and if she found she couldn't manage, she'd send for Winnie again later on.

Can think of no more unsatisfactory arrangement, from domestic point of view, but hear myself assuring Winnie cordially that that'll be quite all right.

We all collect various properties from the gravel, and Benjy achieves succès fou with evacuees and myself by snatching up bedroom slipper and prancing away with it under remotest of the lilac bushes, from whence he looks out at us with small growls, whilst shaking slipper between his teeth.

Marigold and Margery scream with laughter and applaud him heartily under pretence of rescuing slipper, and Aunt Blanche comes downstairs and picks up my sponge and then greets me most affectionately.

Am still pursuing scattered belongings, rolled to distant points of the compass, when small car dashes in at the gate and I have only time to tell Aunt Blanche to get rid of them whoever it is, and hasten into the house.

(They cannot possibly have failed to see me, but could they perhaps think, owing to unfamiliar London clothes, that I am newly-arrived visitor with eccentric preference for unpacking just outside the hall door? Can only hope so, without very much confidence.)

Hasten upstairs—rapturously delighted at familiar bedroom once more—and am moved at finding particularly undesirable green glass vase with knobs, that I have never liked, placed on dressing-table and containing two yellow dahlias, one branch of pallid Michaelmas daisies, and some belated sprigs of catmint—undoubted effort of Marigold and Margery.

Snatch off hat and coat—can hear Aunt Blanche under the window haranguing unknown arrivals—and resort to looking-glass, brush and comb, lipstick and powder-puff, but find myself breaking off all operations to straighten favourite Cézanne reproduction hanging on the wall, and also restoring small clock to left-hand corner of table where I left it, and from which it has been moved to the right.

(Query: Does this denote unusually orderly mind and therefore rank as an asset, or is it merely quality vulgarly—and often inaccurately—known to my youth as old-maidishness?)

Sounds of car driving away again—look out of the window, but am none the wiser except for seeing number on the rear-plate, which conveys nothing, and Benjy now openly chewing up slipper-remains.

Ejaculate infatuatedly that he is a little lamb, and go downstairs to tea.

This laid in dining-room and strikes me as being astonishingly profuse, and am rendered speechless when Aunt Blanche says Dear, dear, they've forgotten the honey, and despatches Marigold to fetch it. She also apologises for scarcity of butter—can only say that it hadn't struck me, as there must be about a quarter of a pound per head in the dish—but adds that at least we can have as much clotted cream as we like, and we shall have to make the best of that.

We do.

She asks after Serena Fiddlededee—am able to respond enthusiastically and say we've made great friends and that Serena is so amusing—and then mentions Pussy Winter-Gammon. Totally different atmosphere at once becomes noticeable, and although I only reply that she seems to be very well indeed and full of energy, Aunt Blanche makes deprecatory sort of sound with her tongue, frowns heavily and exclaims that Pussy—not that she wants to say anything against her—really is a perfect fool, and enough to try the patience of a saint. What on earth she wants to behave in that senseless way for, at her time of life, Aunt Blanche doesn't pretend to understand, but there it is—Pussy Winter-Gammon always has been inclined to be thoroughly tiresome. Aunt Blanche is, if I know what she means, devoted to Pussy but, at the same time, able to recognise her faults.

Can foresee that Aunt Blanche and I are going to spend hours discussing old Mrs. W.-G. and her faults.

I enquire what the car was, and am told It was Nothing Whatever, only a man and his wife who suggested that we should like to give them photographs from which they propose to evolve exquisitely-finished miniatures, painted on ivorine, suitably framed, to be purchased by us for the sum of five guineas each.

Ask how Aunt Blanche got rid of them and she seems reluctant to reply, but at last admits that she told them that we ourselves didn't want any miniatures at the moment but that they might go on down the road, turn to the left, and call on Lady Boxe.

The butler, adds Aunt Blanche hurriedly, will certainly know how to get rid of them.

Cannot pretend to receive the announcement of this unscrupulous proceeding with anything but delighted amusement.

It also leads to my asking for news of Lady B.'s present activities and hearing that she still talks of a Red Cross Hospital—officers only—but that it has not so far materialised. Lady B.'s Bentley, however, displays a Priority label on wind-screen, and she has organised First Aid classes for the village.

At this I exclaim indignantly that we all attended First Aid classes all last winter, under conditions of the utmost discomfort, sitting on tiny chairs in front of minute desks in the Infant School, as being only available premises. What in the name of common sense do we want more First Aid for?

Aunt Blanche shakes her head and says Yes, she knows all that, but there it is. People are interested in seeing the inside of a large house, and they get coffee and biscuits, and there you are.

I tell Aunt Blanche that, if it wasn't for Stalin and his general behaviour, I should almost certainly become a Communist to-morrow. Not a Bolshevik, surely? says Aunt Blanche. Yes, a Bolshevik—at least to the extent of beheading quite a number of the idle rich.

On thinking this over, perceive that the number really boils down to one—and realise that my political proclivities are of a biassed and personal character, and not worth a moment's consideration. (Note: Say no more about them.)

Tea is succeeded by Happy Families with infant evacuees Marigold and Margery, again recalling nursery days now long past of Robin and Vicky.

Both are eventually despatched to bed, and I see that the moment has come for visiting Cook in the kitchen. Remind myself how splendidly she behaved at outbreak of war, and that Aunt Blanche has said she thinks things are all right, but am nevertheless apprehensive.

Have hardly set foot in the kitchen before realising—do not know how or why—that apprehensions are about to be justified. Start off nevertheless with faux air of confident cheerfulness, and tell Cook that I'm glad to be home again, glad to see that Winnie's back at work, glad to see how well the children look, very glad indeed to see that she herself doesn't look too tired. Cannot think of anything else to be glad about, and come to a stop.

Cook, in very sinister tones, hopes that I've enjoyed my holiday.

Well, it hasn't been exactly a holiday.

(Should like to tell her that T have been engaged, day and night, on activities of national importance but this totally unsupported by facts, and do not care to mention Canteen which would not impress Cook, who knows the extent of my domestic capabilities, in the very least.)

Instead, ask weakly if everything has been All Right?

Cook says Yes'm, in tones which mean No'm, and at once adds that she's been on the go from morning till night, and of course the nursery makes a great deal of extra work and that girl Winnie has no head at all. She's not a bad girl, in her way, but she hasn't a head. She never will have, in Cook's opinion.

I express concern at this deficiency, and also regret that Winnie, with or without head, should have had to be away.

As to that, replies Cook austerely, it may or may not have been necessary. All she knows is that she had to be up and on her hands and knees at half-past five every morning, to see to that there blessed kitchen range.

(If this was really so, can only say that Cook has created a precedent, as no servant in this house has ever, in any circumstances, dreamed of coming downstairs before a quarter to seven at the very earliest—Cook herself included.)

The range, continues Cook, has been more trying than she cares to say. She does, however, say—and again describes herself at half-past five every morning, on her hands and knees. (Cannot see that this extraordinary position could have been in any way necessary, or even desirable.)

There is, in Cook's opinion, Something Wrong with the Range. Make almost automatic reply to this well-worn domestic plaint, to the effect that it must be the flues, but Cook repudiates the flues altogether and thinks it's something more like the whole range gone, if I know what she means.

I do know what she means, only too well, and assure her that a new cooking-stove is quite out of the question at present and that I regret it as much as she does. Cook obviously doesn't believe me and we part in gloom and constraint.

Am once again overcome by the wide divergence between fiction and fact, and think of faithful servant Hannah in the March family and how definite resemblance between her behaviour and Cook's was quite discernible at outbreak of war, but is now no longer noticeable in any way. All would be much easier if Cook's conduct rather more consistent, and would remain preferably on Hannah-level, or else definitely below it—but not veering from one to the other.

Make these observations in condensed form to Robert and he asks Who is Hannah? and looks appalled when I say that Hannah is character from the classics. Very shortly afterwards he goes into the study and I have recourse to Aunt Blanche.

She is equally unresponsive about Hannah, but says Oh yes, she knows Little Women well, only she can't remember anybody called Hannah, and am I sure I don't mean Aunt March? And anyway, books are no guide to real life.

Abandon all literary by-paths and come into the open with straightforward enquiry as to the best way of dealing with Cook.

Give her a week's holiday, advises Aunt Blanche instantly. A week will make all the difference. She and I and Winnie can manage the cooking between us, and perhaps Doreen Fitzgerald would lend a hand.

Later on I decide to adopt this scheme, with modifications—eliminating all assistance from Aunt Blanche, Winnie and Doreen Fitzgerald and sending for Mrs. Vallence—once kitchen-maid to Lady Frobisher—from the village.

October 15th.—We plough the fields and scatter, at Harvest Home service, and church is smothered in flowers, pumpkins, potatoes, apples and marrows. The infant Margery pulls my skirt—which is all she can reach—and mutters long, hissing communication of which I hear not one word and whisper back in dismay: Does she want to be taken out?

She shakes her head.

I nod mine in return, to imply that I quite understand whatever it was she meant to convey, and hope she will be satisfied—but she isn't, and hisses again.

This time it is borne in on me that she is saying it was she who placed the largest marrow—which is much bigger than she is herself—in position near the organ-pipes, and I nod very vigorously indeed, and gaze admiringly at the marrow.

Margery remains with her eyes glued to it throughout the service.

Note that no single member of the congregation is carrying gas-mask, and ask Robert afterwards if he thinks the omission matters, and he says No.

Our Vicar is encouraging from the pulpit—sensation pervades entire church when one R.A.F. uniform and one military one walk in and we recognise, respectively, eldest son of the butcher and favourite nephew of Mrs. Vallence—and strange couple in hiker's attire appear in pew belonging to aged Farmer (who has been bed-ridden for years and never comes to church)—and are viewed with most un-Christian disfavour by everybody. (Presumable exception must here be made, however, in favour of Our Vicar.)

Exchange customary greetings outside with neighbours, take automatic glance—as usual—at corner beneath yew-tree where I wish to be deposited in due course and register hope that Nazi bombs may not render this impracticable—and glean the following items of information:

Johnnie Lamb from Water Lane Cottages, has gone.

(Sounds very final indeed, but really means training-camp near Salisbury.)

Most of the other boys haven't yet Gone, but are anxious to Go, and expect to do so at any minute.

Bill Chuff, who was in the last war, got himself taken at once and is said by his wife to be guarding the Power Station at Devonport. (Can only say, but do not of course do so, that Bill Chuff will have to alter his ways quite a lot if he is to be a success at the Power Station at Devonport. Should be interested to hear what Our Vicar, who has spent hours in spiritual wrestling with Bill Chuff in the past fifteen years, thinks of this appointment.)

An aeroplane was seen over the mill, flying very low, three days ago, and had a foreign look about it—but it didn't do anything, so may have been Belgian. Cannot attempt to analyse the component parts of this statement and simply reply, Very Likely.

Lady B. has sent up to say that she will employ any girl who has passed her First Aid Examination, in future Red Cross Hospital, and has met with hardly any response as a rumour has gone round that she intends to make everybody else scrub the floors and do the cooking while she manages all the nursing.

Am quite prepared to believe this, and manage to convey as much without saying it in so many words.

Gratified at finding myself viewed as a great authority on war situation, and having many enquiries addressed to me.

What is going to happen about Finland, and do I think that Russia is playing a Double Game? (To this I reply, Triple, at the very least.)

Can I perhaps say where the British Army is, exactly?

If I can't, it doesn't matter, but it would be a Comfort to know whether it has really moved up to the Front yet, or not. The Ministry of Information doesn't tell one much, does it?

No, it doesn't.

Then what, in my opinion, is it for?

To this, can only return an evasive reply.

The village of Mandeville Fitzwarren, into which Mrs. Greenslade's Ivy married last year, hasn't had a single gas-mask issued to it yet, and is much disturbed, because this looks as though it was quite Out of the World, which isn't the case at all.

Promise to lay the case of Mandeville Fitzwarren before Robert in his official A.R.P. capacity without delay.

(M. F. is minute cluster of six cottages, a farm, inn and post-office, in very remote valley concealed in a labyrinth of tiny lanes and utterly invisible from anywhere at all, including the sky.)

Final enquiry is whether Master Robin is nineteen yet, and when I reply that he isn't, everybody expresses satisfaction and hopes It'll be Over before he's finished his schooling.

Am rather overcome and walk to the car, where all emotion is abruptly dispersed by astonishing sight of cat Thompson sitting inside it, looking out of the window.

Evacuees Marigold and Margery, who are gazing at him with admiration, explain that he followed them all the way from home and they didn't know what else to do with him, so shut him into the car. Accordingly drive back with Thompson sitting on my knee and giving me sharp, severe scratch when Robert sounds horn at the corner.

Peaceful afternoon ensues, write quantity of letters, and Aunt Blanche says it is a great relief not to have to read the newspapers, and immerses herself in Journals of Miss Weeton instead and says they are so restful.

Tell her that I have read them all through three times already and find them entrancing, but not a bit restful. Doesn't Aunt Barton's behaviour drive her to a frenzy, and what about Brother Tom's?

Aunt Blanche only replies, in thoroughly abstracted tones, that poor little Miss Pedder has just caught fire and is in a fearful blaze, and will I please not interrupt her till she sees what happens next.

Can only leave Aunt Blanche to enjoy her own idea of restful literature.

Finish letters—can do nothing about Cook owing to nationwide convention that employers do not Speak on a Sunday in any circumstance whatever—decide that this will be a good moment to examine my wardrobe—am much discouraged by the result—ask Robert if he would like a walk and he says No, not now, this is his one opportunity of going through his accounts.

As Robert is leaning back in study armchair in front of the fire, with Blackwood's Magazine on his knees, I think it tactful to withdraw.

Reflect on the number of times I have told myself that even one hour of leisure would enable me to mend arrears of shoulder-straps and stockings, wash gloves, and write long letter to Robert's mother in South of France, and then instantly retire to drawing-room fire and armchair opposite to Aunt Blanche's, and am only roused by ringing of gong for tea.

Evening is spent in playing Spillikins with evacuees, both of whom are highly skilled performers, and leave Aunt Blanche and myself standing at the post.

Eleven o'clock has struck and I am half-way to bed before I remember Mandeville Fitzwarren and go down again and lay before Robert eloquent exposition of the plight of its inhabitants.

Robert not at all sympathetic—he has had several letters from Mandeville Fitzwarren, and has personally addressed a Meeting of its fourteen parishioners, and assured them that they have not been forgotten. In the meantime, he declares, nobody is, in the least likely to come and bomb them from the air, and they need not think it. It's all conceit.

This closes the discussion.

October 16th.—Very exhausting debate between myself and Cook.

I tell her—pleasant tone, bright expression, firmness mingled with benevolence—that she has thoroughly earned a rest and that I should like her to take at least a week's holiday whilst I am at home. Wednesday, I should suggest, would be a good day for her to go.

Cook immediately assumes an air of profound offence and says Oh no'm, that isn't at all necessary. She doesn't want any holiday.

Yes, I say, she does. It will do her good.

Cook shakes her head and gives superior smile, quite devoid of mirth.

Yes, Cook, really.

No'm. It's very kind of me, but she couldn't think of such a thing.

But we could manage, I urge—at which Cook looks highly incredulous and rather resentful—and I should like her to have a holiday, and I feel sure she needs a holiday.

Cook returns, unreasonably, that she is too tired for a holiday to do her any good. She wouldn't enjoy it.

In another moment we are back at the stove motif again, and I am once more forced to hear of Cook's suspicion that something is wrong with it, that she thinks the whole range is going, if it hasn't actually gone, and of her extraordinary and unnatural activities, on her hands and knees, at half-past five in the morning.

I tell Cook—not without defiance—that A Man will come and look at the range whilst she is away. She says a man won't be able to do nothing. The Sweep, last time he saw it, said he couldn't understand how it was still holding together. In his opinion it wouldn't take more than a touch to send the whole thing to pieces, it was in such a way.

Sweep has evidently been very eloquent indeed, as Cook continues to quote him at immense length.

(Note: Make enquiries as to whether any other Sweep lives within a ten-mile radius, and if so, employ him for the future.)

Find myself edging nearer and nearer to the door, while at the same time continuing to look intelligently and responsively at Cook, but no break occurs in her discourse to enable me to disappear altogether.

After what seems like hours, Cook pauses for a moment and I again reiterate my intention of sending her for a holiday, to which she again replies that this is not necessary, nor even possible. Should like to ask whether Cook has ever heard of Mr. Bultitude who said that Everything would go to rack and ruin without him and was informed in return, not unreasonably, that he couldn't be as important as all that.

Instead, tell her that I shall expect her to be ready on Wednesday, and that Mrs. Vallence from the village is coming in to lend a hand.

Have just time to see, quite unwillingly, Cook assume an expression of horrified incredulity, before going out of the kitchen as quickly as I can.

Meet Aunt Blanche in the hall, and she asks if I am feeling ill as I am such a queer colour. Admit to feeling Upset, if not actually ill, after discussion in the kitchen and Aunt Blanche at once replies that she knows exactly what I mean, and it always does make a wreck of one, but I shall find that everything will go simply perfectly for at least a fortnight now. This is always the result of Speaking.

Feel that Aunt Blanche is right, and rally.

Serena very kindly takes the trouble to write and say that I am missed in the underworld, that they have had another lecture on the treatment of shock, and everybody says the air-raids are to begin on Sunday next. P.S.: She was taken out to dinner last night by J.L. and things are getting rather difficult, as she still can't make up her mind. When I come back she would like my advice.

(This leads to long train of thought as to the advisability or otherwise of (a) asking and (b) giving, advice. Reach the conclusion that both are undesirable. Am convinced that nothing I can say will in reality alter the course of Serena's existence, and that she probably knows this as well as I do, but wants to talk to somebody. Can quite understand this, and am more than ready to oblige her.)

Also receive official-looking envelope—no stamp—and decide that the Ministry of Information has at last awakened to a sense of its own folly in failing to utilise my services for the nation, and has written to say so. Have already mentally explained situation to Robert, left Aunt Blanche to deal with Cook, packed up and gone to London by 11.40—if still running—before I have so much as slit open the envelope. It turns out to be strongly-worded appeal on behalf of no-doubt excellent charity, in no way connected with the war.

Robert departs for his A.R.P. office in small official two-seater, and tells me not to forget, if I want to take the car out, that I have barely three gallons of petrol and am not entitled to have my next supply until the twenty-third of the month.

I remind him in return about Mandeville Fitzwarren, and he assures me that he has not forgotten it at all and it's as safe as the Bank of England.

Go up and make the beds.

Doreen Fitzgerald, who is helping me, asserts that it is unlucky to turn the mattress on a Monday, and we accordingly leave it unturned. Learn subsequently from Aunt Blanche that D.F. holds similar views concerning Sundays, Fridays and the thirteenth of every month.

Learn from wireless News at one o'clock that Finnish-Soviet negotiations have been suspended, and am not in any way cheered by Aunt Blanche, who says that it is only a question of time, now, before every country in Europe is dragged into war.

Lunch follows, and we make every effort not to talk of world situation in front of the children, but are only moderately successful, and Marigold—eating apple-tart—suddenly enquires in most intelligent tones whether I think the Germans will actually land in England, or only drop bombs on it from aeroplanes?

Instantly decide to take both Marigold and Margery out in car, petrol or no petrol, and have tea at small newly-opened establishment in neighbouring market town, by way of distracting their thoughts.

Both are upstairs, having official rest—(can hear Margery singing "South of the Border" very loudly and Marigold kicking the foot of the bed untiringly)—when Winnie opens drawing-room door and announces Lady B. with what seems like deliberate unexpectedness.

Lady B., whom I have not seen for months, has on admirable black two-piece garment, huge mink collar, perfectly brand-new pair of white gloves, exquisite shoes and stockings and tiny little black-white-red-blue-orange hat, intrinsically hideous but producing effect of extreme smartness and elegance.

Am instantly aware that my hair is out of curl, that I have not powdered my nose for hours, that my shoes—blue suède—bear no relation whatever to my dress—grey tweed—and that Aunt Blanche, who has said earlier in the day that she can't possibly go about for another minute in her old mauve wool cardigan, has continued to do so. Lady B. is doubtless as well aware as I am myself of these deficiencies, but both of us naturally ignore them, and assume appearance of delight in our reunion.

Aunt Blanche is introduced; Lady B. looks over the top of her head and says Don't let me disturb you, in very patronising tones indeed, and sits down without waiting to be asked.

What a world, she says, we're living in! All in it together. (Can see that this seems to her very odd.) We shall all alike suffer, all alike have to play our part—rich and poor.

Aunt Blanche, with great spirit, at once retorts that it won't be rich and poor at all, but poor and poor, with the new income-tax, and Lady B.—evidently a good deal startled—admits that Aunt Blanche is too right. She herself is seriously considering closing the London house, selling the villa in the South of France, making over the place in Scotland to the younger generation, and living quite, quite quietly on a crust in one half of the house at home.

Enquire whether she has taken any steps as yet towards accomplishing all this, and she says No, she is expecting a number of wounded officers at any moment, and has had to get the house ready for them. Besides, it would in any case be unpatriotic to dismiss members of the staff and cause unemployment, so Lady B. is keeping them all on except the second footman, who has been called up, and to whom she has said: Henry, you must go. The country has called for you, and I should be the very last person in the world not to wish you to go and fight. Leave your address and I will arrange to send you some cigarettes.

Henry, says Lady B., had tears in his eyes as he thanked her.

She then asks very solicitously what I have been doing to cause myself to look like a scarecrow, and she has heard that I am taking in evacuees, and where have I managed to squeeze them in, it's too clever of me for words.

Wonder whether to reply that I have set apart two suites for the evacuees and still have the whole of the West Wing empty, but decide on the truth as being simpler and more convincing, and merely inform Lady B. that as my own children are away, it is all very easy.

Lady B. at once supposes that My Girl, who must be quite grown-up by now, is working somewhere.

No, she's still at school, and will be for another two and a half years at least.

Lady B. says Really! in tones of astonishment. And what about My Boy? In France?

Not at all. In the Sixth at Rugby.

Ah, Rugby! says Lady B.

Am perfectly certain that in another second she is going to tell me about her nephews at Eton, and accordingly head her off by enquiring what she thinks about the probable duration of the war.

Lady B. shakes her head and is of opinion that we are not being told everything, by any means.

At the same time, she was at the War Office the other day (should like to know why, and how) and was told in strict confidence—

At this point Lady B. looks round the room, as though expecting to see a number of the Gestapo hiding behind the curtains, and begs me to shut the window, if I don't mind One never can be absolutely certain, and she has to be so particularly careful, because of being related to Lord Gort. (First I've ever heard of it.)

Shut the window—nothing to be seen outside except one blackbird on the lawn—and Aunt Blanche opens the door and then shuts it again.

Have often wondered what exact procedure would be if, on opening a door, Cook or Winnie should be discovered immediately outside it. Prefer not to pursue the thought.

Well, says Lady B., she knows that what she is going to say will never go beyond these four walls. At this she fixes her eyes on Aunt Blanche, who turns pale and murmurs Certainly not, and is evidently filled with apprehension.

Does Aunt Blanche, enquires Lady B., happen to know Violetta, Duchess of Tittington?

No.

Then do I know Violetta, Duchess of Tittington?

Am likewise obliged to disclaim Violetta, Duchess of Tittington—but dishonestly do so in rather considering tones, as though doubtful whether thinking of Violetta or of some other Duchess of my acquaintance.

Violetta, it seems, is a dear friend of Lady B's. She is naturally in close touch with the Cabinet, the House of Lords, the Speaker of the House of Commons, the War Office and Admiralty House. And from one or all of these sources, Violetta has deduced that a lull is expected shortly. It will last until the spring, and is all in favour of the Allies.

Will this lull, asks Aunt Blanche agitatedly, extend to the air? She is not, she adds hastily, in the least afraid of bombs or gas or anything of that kind—not at all—but it is very unsettling not to know. And, of course, we've all been expecting air-raids ever since the very beginning, and can't quite understand why they haven't happened.

Oh, they'll happen! declares Lady B. very authoritatively.

They'll happen all right—(surely rather curious form of qualification?)—and they'll be quite unpleasant. Aunt Blanche must be prepared for that. But at the same time she must remember that our defences are very good, and there's the balloon barrage to reckon with. The Duke, Violetta's husband, has pronounced that not more than one in fifteen of the enemy bombers will get through.

And will the raids all be over London? further enquires Aunt Blanche.

Try to convey to her in a single look that Lady B. is by no means infallible, and that I should be much obliged if Aunt Blanche wouldn't encourage her to believe that she is, and also that if we are to take evacuees out in the car, it is time this call came to an end—but message evidently beyond the compass of a single look, or of Aunt Blanche's powers of reception, and she continues to gaze earnestly at Lady B. through large pair of spectacles, reminding me of anxious, but intelligent, white owl.

Lady B. is grave, but not despairing, about London.

It will be the main objective, but a direct hit on any one particular building from the air is practically impossible. Aunt Blanche may take that as a fact.

Am instantly filled with a desire to repudiate it altogether, as a fact, and inform Lady B. that the river is unfortunately visible from the air at almost any height.

Completely defeated by Lady B., who adopts an attitude of deep concern and begs to be told instantly from what source I have heard this, as it is exactly the kind of inaccurate and mischievous rumour that the Government are most anxious to track down and expose.

As I have this moment evolved it, I find myself at a loss, and answer that I can't remember where I heard it.

I must remember, says Lady B. A great many utterly false statements of the kind are being circulated all over the country by Nazi propaganda agents, and the Authorities are determined to put an end to it. They are simply designed to impair the morale of the nation.

Can only assure her that I am practically certain it didn't emanate from a Nazi propaganda agent—but Lady B. is still far from satisfied, and begs me to be very much more careful, and, above all, to communicate with her direct, the moment I meet with any kind of subversive rumour.

Should not dream of doing anything of the kind.

Aunt Blanche—do not care at all for the tone that she is taking—begs Lady B. for inside information in regard to the naval situation, and is told that this is Well in Hand. Lady B. was dining with the First Lord of the Admiralty only a few nights ago and he told her—but this must on no account go further—that the British Navy was doing wonders.

It always does, says Aunt Blanche firmly—at which she goes up in my estimation and I look at her approvingly, but she ignores me and continues to fix her eyes immovably on Lady B.

Tell myself, by no means for the first time, that Time and the Hour run through the Roughest Day.

Lady B. asks what I have been doing in London and doesn't wait for an answer, but adds that she is very glad to see me back again, as really there is plenty to do in one's own home nowadays, and no need to go out hunting for war jobs when there are plenty of young people ready and willing to undertake them.

Should like to inform Lady B. that I have been urgently invited to work for the Ministry of Information, but Aunt Blanche intervenes and states—intentions very kind but wish she had let it alone—that I am making myself most useful taking night duty at a W.V.S. Canteen.

The one in Berkeley Square?

No, not the one in Berkeley Square. In the Adelphi.

Lady B. loses all interest on learning of this inferior locality, and takes her leave almost at once.

She looks round the study and tells me that I am quite right to have shut up the drawing-room—she herself is thinking of only using three or four of the downstairs rooms—and asks why I don't put down parquet flooring, as continual sweeping always does wear any carpet into holes, and professes to admire three very inferior chrysanthemums in pots, standing in the corner.

Do I know La Garonne? A lovely pink one, and always looks so well massed in the corners of a room or at the foot of the staircase.

(Should be very sorry to try to mass even two chrysanthemums in pots at the foot of my own staircase, as they would prevent anybody from either going up or down.)

Express civil interest in La Garonne and ring the bell for Winnie, who doesn't answer it. Have to escort Lady B. to hall door and waiting Bentley myself, and there bid her goodbye. Her last word is to the effect that if things get too difficult, I am to ring her up as, in times like these, we must all do what we can for one another.

She then steps into Bentley, is respectfully shrouded in large fur rug by chauffeur, and driven away.

Return to study fire and inform Aunt Blanche that, much as I dislike everything I have ever heard or read about Stalin and his régime, there are times when I should feel quite prepared to join Communist party. Aunt Blanche only answers, with great common sense, that she does not think I had better say anything of that kind in front of Robert, and what about telling Marigold and Margery to get ready for their drive?

Follow her advice and very successful expedition ensues, with much running downhill with car in neutral gear, in the hope that this saves petrol, and tea at rather affected little hostelry recently opened under the name of Betty's Buttery.

Return before black-out and listen to the Six O'clock News. German aircraft have made daylight raid over Firth of Forth and have been driven off, and aerial battle has been watched from the streets by the inhabitants of Edinburgh.

Aunt Blanche waxes very indignant over this, saying that her sister-in-law deliberately went up North in search of safety and now she has had all this excitement and seen the whole thing. She is unable to get over this for the rest of the evening, and says angrily at intervals that it's all so exactly like Eleanor.

Evening passes uneventfully. Robert returns, says that he's already heard the News, seems unwilling to enter into any discussion of it, and immerses himself in Times crossword puzzle. Aunt Blanche not deterred by this from telling him all about air-raid over Firth of Forth with special emphasis on the fact of her sister-in-law Eleanor having been there and, as she rather strangely expresses it, had all the fun for nothing.

Robert makes indeterminate sound, but utters no definite comment.

Later on, however, he suggests that Vicky's school, on the East Coast, may have heard something of raid and that, if so, she will be delighted.

October 18th.—Long letter from Vicky informs us that school did receive air-raid warning, interrupting a lacrosse match, and that everybody had to go into the shelter. The weather has been foul, and a most divine concert has taken place, with a divine man playing the violin marvellously. Vicky is trying a new way of doing her hair, curled under, and some of her friends say it's like Elizabeth Bergner and others say it's simply frightful. Tons of love and Vicky is frightfully sorry for sending such a deadly letter but it's been a frightfully dull term and nothing ever seems to happen.

Robert, at this, enquires caustically what the young want nowadays? Nothing ever satisfies them.

October 19th.—Cook, steeped in gloom, is driven by myself to distant crossroads where she is met by an uncle, driving a large car full of milkcans. Her suit-case is wedged amongst the milk-cans, and she tells me in sepulchral tones that if she's wanted back in a hurry I can always ring up the next farm—name of Blore—and they'll always run across with a message and she can be got as far as the cross-roads if not all the way, as uncle has plenty of petrol.

Take my leave of her, reflecting how much more fortunately situated uncle is than I am myself.

Mrs. Vallence is in the kitchen on my return and instantly informs me that she isn't going to say a word. Not a single word. But it'll take her all her time, and a bit over, just to get things cleaned up.

I give a fresh turn to the conversation by suggesting that I am anxious to learn as much as I can in the way of cooking, and should be glad of anything that Mrs. Vallence can teach me, and we come to an amicable agreement regarding my presence in the kitchen at stated hours of the day.

Indulge in long and quite unprofitable fantasy of myself preparing and cooking very superior meals for (equally superior) succession of Paying Guests, at the end of the war. Just as I have achieved a really remarkable dinner of which the principal features are lobster à l'Américaine and grapes in spun sugar, Winnie comes in to say that the grocer has called for orders please'm and Mrs. Vallence says to say that we're all right except for a packet of cornflour and half-a-dozen of eggs for the cakes if that'll be all right.

I give my sanction to the packet of cornflour and half-dozen of eggs and remind myself that there is indeed a wide difference between fact and fancy.

This borne in on me even more sharply at a later hour when Mrs. Vallence informs me that gardener has sent in two lovely rabbits and they'll come in handy for to-morrow's lunch and give me an opportunity of seeing how they ought to be got ready, which is a thing many ladies never have any idea of whatever.

Do not care to reply that I should be more than content to remain with the majority in this respect.

October 21st.—Aunt Blanche tells me very seriously to have nothing to do with rabbits. Breakfast scones if I like, mayonnaise sauce and an occasional sweet if I really feel I must, but not rabbits. They can, and should, be left to professional cooks.

Could say a great deal in reply, to the effect that professional cooks are anything but numerous and that those there are will very shortly be beyond my means—but remember in time that argument with the elderly, more especially when a relative, is of little avail and go to the kitchen without further discussion.

Quite soon afterwards am wishing from the bottom of my heart that I had taken Aunt Blanche's advice.

This gives place, after gory and unpleasant interlude, to rather more self-respecting frame of mind, and Mrs. V. tells me approvingly that I have now done The Worst Job in all Cooking.

Am thankful to hear it.

Rabbit-stew a success, but make my own lunch off scrambled eggs.

October 24th.—Obliged to ring up Cook's uncle's neighbour and ask him to convey a message to the effect that petrol will be insufficient to enable me to go and meet her either at station or bus stop. Can the uncle convey her to the door, or must conveyance be hired?

Aunt Blanche says that Robert has plenty of A.R.P. petrol, she supposes, but Robert frowns severely on this, and says with austerity that he hasn't plenty at all—only just enough to enable him to perform his duties.

Aunt Blanche inclined to be hurt at Robert's tone of voice and, quite unjustly, becomes hurt with me as well, and when I protest says that she doesn't know what I mean, there's nothing the matter at all, and she's not the kind of person to take offence at nothing, and never has been. I ought to know her better than that, after all these years.

Assure her in return that of course I do, but this not a success either and I go off to discuss Irish stew and boiled apple pudding with Mrs. Vallence in kitchen, leaving Aunt Blanche looking injured over the laundry book. She is no better when I return, and tells me that practically not a single table-napkin is fit to be seen and most of them are One Large Darn.

Receive distinct impression that Aunt Blanche feels that I am solely to blame for this, and cannot altogether escape uneasy feeling that perhaps I am.

(Query: Why? Is not this distressing example of suggestibility amounting to weak-mindedness? Answer: Do not care to contemplate it.)

Can see that it will be useless to ask Aunt Blanche if she would like to accompany me to village, and accordingly go there without her but with Marigold dashing ahead on Fairy bicycle and Margery pedalling very slowly on minute tricycle.

Expedition fraught with difficulty owing to anxiety about Marigold, always just ahead of me whisking round corners from which I feel certain that farm lorry is about to appear, and necessity of keeping an eye on Margery, continually dropping behind and evidently in utmost distress every time the lane slopes either up or down. Suggestion that she might like to push tricycle for a bit only meets with head-shakes accompanied by heavy breathing.

Am relieved and astonished when village is achieved without calamity and bicycle and tricycle are left outside Post Office whilst M. and M. watch large, mottled-looking horse being shod at the forge.

Mrs. S. at the Post Office—having evidently been glued to the window before recalled to the counter—observes that they look just like Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret, don't they?

Can see no resemblance whatever, but reply amiably and untruthfully that perhaps they do, a little.

Long and enthralling conversation ensues, in the course of which I learn that Our Vicar's Wife has Got Help at last—which sounds spiritual, but really means that she has found A Girl from neighbouring parish who isn't, according to Mrs. S., not anyways what you'd call trained, but is thought not to mind being told. We agree that this is better than nothing, and Mrs. S. adds darkly that we shall be seeing a bit of a change in the Girls, unless she's very much mistaken, with the gentry shutting up their houses all over the place, like, and there's a many Girls will find out that they didn't know which way their bread was buttered, before so very long.

I point out in return that nobody's bread is likely to be buttered at all, once rationing begins, and Mrs. S. appears delighted with this witticism and laughs heartily. She adds encouragingly that Marge is now a very different thing from what it was in the last war.

Hope with all my heart that she may be right.

A three-shilling book of stamps, then says Mrs. S.—making no effort to produce it—and can I tell her what Russia is going to do?

No, not definitely at the moment.

Well, says Mrs. S., Hitler, if he'd asked her, wouldn't never have got himself into this mess. For it is a mess, and if he doesn't know it now, he soon will.

Can see that if Mrs. S. and I are to cover the whole range of European politics it will take most of the day, and again recall her to my requirements.

We discuss the Women's Institute—speakers very difficult to get, and Mrs. S. utterly scouts my suggestion that members should try and entertain one another, asserting that none of our members would care to put themselves forward, she's quite sure, and there'd only be remarks passed if they did—and rumour to the effect that a neighbouring Village Hall has been Taken Away from the W.I. by the A.R.P. The W.I. has pleaded to be allowed to hold its Monthly Meetings there and has finally been told that it may do so, on the sole condition that in the event of an air-raid alarm the members will instantly all vacate the Hall and go out into the street.

It is not known whether conditions have been agreed to or not, but Mrs. S. would like to know if I can tell her, once and for all, whether we are to expect any air-raids or not, and if so, will they be likely to come over the Village?

Can only say to this that I Hope Not, and again ask for stamps which Mrs. S. produces from a drawer, and tells me that she's sorry for Finland and is afraid they're in for trouble and that'll be three shillings.

Horse at the forge still being shod, and evacuees Marigold and Margery still rooted to the ground looking at it. Am about to join them when smart blow on the shoulder causes me to turn round, very angry, and confront Miss Pankerton.

Miss P. is in khaki—cannot imagine any colour less suited to her—and looks very martial indeed except for pince-nez, quite out-of-place but no doubt inevitable.

She has come to meet her six young toughs, she says, now due out of school. Regular East End scallywags, they are, but Miss P. has made them toe the line and has no trouble with them now. I shall see in a few minutes.

And what, asks Miss P., am I doing? A woman of my intelligence ought to be at the very heart of things at a time like this.

Fleeting, but extraordinarily powerful, feeling comes over me that I have often thought this myself, but that this does not in any way interfere with instant desire to contradict Miss P. flatly.

Compromise—as usual—by telling her that I am not really doing very much, I have two very nice evacuated children and their nurse in the house and am a good deal in London, where I work at a Canteen.

But, replies Miss P.—in voice that cannot fail to reach Mrs. S. again at Post Office window, which she has now opened—but this is pure Nonsense. I ought to be doing something of real importance. One of the very first things she thought of, when war broke out, was me. Now, she said to herself, that unfortunate woman will have her chance at last. She can stop frittering her time and her talents away, and Find Herself at last. It is not, whatever I may say, too late.

Can only gaze at Miss Pankerton with horror, but she quite misunderstands the look and begs me, most energetically, to pull myself together at once. Whitehall is Crying Out for executives.

I inform Miss P. that if so, cries have entirely failed to reach me, or anybody else that I've met. On the contrary, everybody is asking to be given a job and nobody is getting one.

I have, says Miss P., gone to the wrong people.

No, I reply, I haven't.

Deadlock has evidently been reached and Miss P. and I glare at one another in the middle of the street, no doubt affording interesting material for conjecture to large number of our neighbours.

Situation is relieved by general influx of children coming out of school. Miss P.'s toughs materialise and turn out to be six pallid and undersized little boys, all apparently well under nine years old.

Am rather relieved to see that they look cheerful, and not as though bullied by Miss P., who presently marshals them all into a procession and walks off with them.

Parting observation to me is a suggestion that I ought to join the W.A.A.C.S. and that Miss P. could probably arrange it for me, at which I thank her coldly and say I shouldn't think of such a thing. Miss P.—quite undaunted—calls back over her shoulder that perhaps I'm right, it isn't altogether in my line, and I'd better go to the Ministry of Information, they've got a scheme for making use of the Intellectuals.

Should like to yell back in reply that I am not an Intellectual and don't wish to be thought one—but this proceeding undignified and moreover only very powerful screech indeed could reach Miss Pankerton, now half-way up the hill, with toughs capering along beside her looking like so many white mice.

Turn to collect Marigold and Margery—both have disappeared and are subsequently retrieved from perfectly harmless-seeming lane from which they have mysteriously collected tar all over their shoes.

Make every effort to remove this with handfuls of grass—have no expectations of succeeding, nor do I—and say It's lucky it didn't get onto their coats, and proceed homewards. Find tar on both coats on arriving, also on Marigold's jumper and Margery's socks.

Apologise to Doreen Fitzgerald, tell her I'm afraid she may find it rather difficult to remove, and she answers bitterly Certainly I will, and I feel that relations between us have not been improved.

Situation with regard to Aunt Blanche is fortunately easier and at lunch we talk quite pleasantly about Serena—whom Aunt Blanche still refers to as Serena Fiddlededee—and National Registration Cards.

Do I know, enquires Aunt Blanche, that if one loses one's Identity Card, one is issued with a bright scarlet one?

Like the Scarlet Woman? I ask.

Yes, exactly like that, or else the Scarlet Letter—Aunt Blanche isn't sure which, or whether both are the same, but anyway it's a scarlet card, and even if lost Identity Card reappears, the scarlet one cannot be replaced, but remains for ever.

Can only reply, after a long silence, that it sounds perfectly terrible, and Aunt Blanche says Oh yes, it is.

Conversation only revives when infant Margery abruptly informs us that she made two of the beds unaided this morning.

Commend her highly for this and she looks gratified, but have inward misgiving that her parents, if they hear of her domestic activities, may think that I have made her into a household drudge.

Offer her and Marigold the use of gramophone and all the records for the whole afternoon.

Aunt Blanche, later, tells me that she does not think this was at all a good idea.

Second pest brings me letter from Serena. I am much missed at the Canteen, and Mrs. Peacock has said that mine is a bright face, and she hopes soon to see it back again. (Serena, to this, adds three exclamation marks—whether denoting admiration or astonishment, am by no means certain. Do not, in any case, care for Mrs. P.'s choice of descriptive adjective.)

The underworld, Serena informs me, is a seething mass of intrigue and Darling and the Commandant have made up their quarrel and are never out of one another's pockets for a single instant, but on the other hand Mrs. Nettleship (First Aid) and Miss Carloe-Hill (Ambulance Driver) have had the most tremendous row and are not speaking to one another, and everybody is taking sides and threatening to resign as a protest.

Serena herself hasn't slept for nights and nights because there's been a ping-pong craze and people play it all night long, just outside the Rest-room, and J. L. has taken her out to dinner and to a dreadful film, all full of Nazi atrocities, and this has ensured still further wakefulness.

Serena ends by begging me in most affectionate terms to come back, as she misses me dreadfully, and it's all awful. Have I read a book called The Confidential Agent? It's fearfully good, but dreadfully upsetting, and perhaps I'd better not.

(If The Confidential Agent had not been on my library list already—which it is—should instantly have put it there.)

Am asked by Aunt Blanche, rather apologetically, if that is a letter from Serena Fiddlededee? She didn't, needless to say, look at the envelope, nor has she, of course, the slightest wish to know anything about my private correspondence—but she couldn't help seeing that I had a letter from Serena.

Have too often said exactly-the same thing myself to entertain slightest doubts as to Aunt Blanche's veracity, and offer to show her Serena's letter at once as there is nothing private about it.

No, no, she didn't mean that, Aunt Blanche assures me—at the same time putting on her spectacles with one hand and taking the letter with the other. When she comes to J. L. Aunt Blanche emits rather inarticulate exclamation and at once enquires if I don't think it would be a very good thing?

Well, no, on the whole I don't. It doesn't seem to me that Serena cares two straws about him.

Aunt Blanche moans, and says it seems a very great pity, then cheers up again and declares that when J. L. gets into uniform and is sent out to fight, it will probably make all the difference, and Serena will find out that she does care about him, and one can only hope it won't then be too late.

Perceive that Aunt Blanche and I hold fundamentally divergent views on what does or does not constitute a successful love-affair, and abandon the topic.

Evening closes in with return of Cook, who looks restored and tells me that she enjoyed her holiday and spent most of it in helping her uncle's second wife to make marrow jam.

Enquire of Robert whether he thinks he can spare me if I return to London on Thursday.

He replies that he supposes he can, and asks what I think I shall do, up there?

Write articles about London in War-Time, I suggest, and help at W.V.S. Canteen. Should like to add, Get Important job at Ministry of Information—but recollections of Miss Pankerton forbid.

Robert seems unenthusiastic, but agrees that he is not likely to be much at home and that Aunt Blanche can manage the house all right. He incomprehensibly adds: Who is this Birdie that she is always talking about?

Can only enquire in return: What birdie?

Some name of that kind, Robert says. And a double-barrelled surname. Not unlike Gammon-and-Spinach, and yet not quite that. Instantly recognise old Granny Bo-peep and suggest that he means Pussy Winter-Gammon, to which Robert replies Yes, that's what he said, isn't it?

Explain old Mrs. W.-G. to him in full and Robert, after a long silence, remarks that it sounds to him as though what she needed was the lethal chamber.

October 26th.—Robert leaves me at the station on his way to A.R.P. office, with parting information that he thinks—he is not certain at all but he thinks—that the gas-masks for the inhabitants of Mandeville Fitzwarren are now available for distribution.

Train comes in late, and is very crowded. Take up commanding position at extreme edge of platform and decide to remain there firmly and on no account join travellers hurrying madly from one end of train to the other. Am obliged to revise entire scheme of action when I find myself opposite coach consisting entirely of first-class carriages. Third-class, by the time I reach it, completely filled by other people and their luggage. Get in as best I can and am looked at with resentment amounting to hatred by four strangers comfortably installed in corner seats.

Retire at once behind illustrated daily paper and absorb stream of Inside Information from column which I now regard as being practically omniscient. Can only suppose that its special correspondent spends his days and nights concealed in, alternately, Hitler's waste-paper basket and Stalin's ink-pot.

Realise too late that I have placed bag in rack, sandwiched amongst much other luggage, and that it contains library book on which I am relying to pass the journey.

Shall be more unpopular than ever if I now get up and try to disentangle bag.

Postpone things as long as possible by reading illustrated paper all over again, and also printed notice—inconsiderately pasted over looking-glass—telling me how I am to conduct myself in the event of an air-raid.

Suggestion that we should all lie down on floor of the carriage rouses in me no enthusiasm, and I look at all my fellow travellers in turn and, if possible, care about the idea even less than before.

Following on this I urge myself to Make an Effort, Mrs. Dombey, and actually do so, to the extent of getting up and attacking suit-case. Prolonged struggle results in, no doubt, fearful though unseen havoc amongst folded articles in case and extraction of long novel about Victorian England.

Sit down again feeling, and doubtless looking, as though all my clothes had been twisted round back to front, and find that somebody has opened a window with the result that several pieces of my hair blow intermittently into my eyes and over my nose.

This happens to nobody else in the carriage.

Am not in the least interested by long novel about Victorian England and think the author would have known more about it after a course of Charlotte M. Yonge. Sleep supervenes and am awakened by complete stranger patting me sharply on the knee and asking Do I want Reading?

No, it is very kind of her, but I do not.

Complete stranger gets out and I take the occasion of replacing book in suit-case and observing in pocket-mirror that sleep, theoretically so beneficial, has appalling effect on the appearance of anybody over thirty years of age.

Do my best to repair its ravages.

Reappearance of fellow traveller, carrying cup of tea, reminds me that luncheon car is no longer available and I effect purchase of ham roll through the window.

Step back again into cup of tea, which has been idiotically placed on the floor.

Apologies naturally ensue. I blame myself entirely and say that I am dreadfully sorry—which indeed I am—unknown lady declares heroically that it doesn't really matter, she'd had all she wanted (this can't possibly be true)—and I tell her that I will get her another cup of tea.

No, really.

Yes, yes, I insist.

Train starts just as she makes up her mind to accept, and I spend remainder of the journey thinking remorsefully how thirsty she must be.

We exchange no further words, but part at Paddington, where I murmur wholly inarticulate farewell and she smiles at me reproachfully in return.

Flat has been adorned with flowers, presumably by Serena, and this makes up for revolting little pile of correspondence, consisting entirely of very small bills, uninteresting advertisements, and circular letters asking me to subscribe to numerous deserving causes.

Spend entire evening in doing, so far as I can see, nothing in particular and eventually ring up Rose to see if she has got a job yet.

Am not in the least surprised to hear that she hasn't.

She says that if it wasn't for the black-out she would invite me to come and have supper with her, and I reply that if it wasn't for the black-out I should simply love to come. This seems to be as near as we get to any immediate rendezvous, and I ring off rather dejectedly.

Go out to Chinese basement restaurant across the street and restore my morale with exotic dish composed of rice, onions and unidentifiable odds and ends.

October 29th.—Have occasion to remark, as often before in life, that quite a short absence from any given activity almost invariably results in finding it all quite different on return. Canteen no exception to this rule.

Mrs. Peacock has completely disappeared—nothing to do with leg, which I fear at first may have taken a turn for the worse—and is said to have transferred her services to another branch—professional cashier has taken over cash-register and sits entrenched with it behind a high wooden barricade as though expecting robbery with violence at any minute—and two enormous new urns are installed at one end of counter, rather disquietingly labelled Danger. Enquire humorously of lady in charge whether they are filled with explosives and she looks perfectly blank and replies in a strong Scottish accent that One wad be the hot milk like, and the other the coffee,

Serena is not on duty when I arrive, and telephone-call to her flat has only produced very long and painstaking statement in indifferent English from one of her Refugees, of which I understand scarcely a word, except that Serena is The Angel of Hampstead, is it not? Agree that it is, and exchange cordial farewells, with the Refugee, who says something that I think refers to the goodness of my heart. (Undeserved.)

Canteen gramophone has altered its repertoire—this a distinct relief—and now we have "Love Never Grows Old" and "Run, rabbit, run". Final chorus to the latter—Run, Hitler, run—I think a great mistake and quote to myself Dr. Dunstan from The Human Boy: "It ill becomes us, sir, to jest at a fallen potentate—and still less before he has fallen".

Helpers behind the counter now number two very young and rather pretty sisters, who say that they wish to be called Patricia and Juanita. Tendency on the part of all the male clientèle, to be served by them and nobody else, and they hold immense conversations, in undertones, with youths in leather jackets and brightly-coloured ties.

This leaves Red Cross workers, female ambulance drivers, elderly special constables and stretcher-bearers, to me.

One of these—grey-headed man in spectacles—comes up and scrutinises the menu at great length and then enquires What there is to-night? Suppose his sight has been dimmed by time, and offer to read him the list. He looks offended and says No, no, he has read it. Retrieve this error by asserting that I only made the suggestion because the menu seemed to be so illegibly written.

Instant judgment follows, as Scottish lady leans down from elevation beside the urns and says severely that she wrote out those cards and took particular pains to see that they were not illegible.

Decide to abandon the whole question without attempting any explanations whatever.

Brisk interlude follows, time goes by before I know it, and at eleven o'clock Serena suddenly materialises and asks for coffee—as usual—and says that she is so glad I've come back. Can't I take my supper now and come and join her?

Yes, I can. Am entitled to free meal and, after much consideration, select sardines, bread-and-butter, tea and two buns. Inform Serena, on principle, that I do not approve of feminine habit of eating unsuitable food at unseasonable hours whilst working and that I had a proper dinner before I came out.

Serena begs me not to be so grown-up and asks what the meal was. Am obliged to turn the conversation rather quickly, as have just remembered that it was taken in a hurry at a milk-bar and consisted of soup and tinned-salmon sandwich.

What, I ask, has Serena been doing?

Serena groans and says Oh, on Sunday morning there was an air-raid alarm and she was all ready for anything, and started up her car, and then the whole thing petered out. She popped up into the street and saw the Embankment Gardens balloon getting ready to defend England, but as soon as the All Clear was given, it came down again, which Serena thinks denotes slackness on the part of somebody.

She has also been seeing J. L. and would like to talk to me some time, and could she bring him to the flat for a drink one evening?

Yes, certainly—to-morrow if she likes.

Serena sighs, and looks distressed, and says That would be great fun. J. L. wants cheering-up—in fact, he's utterly wretched. He has finished his novel, and it is all about a woman whose husband is a political prisoner in a Concentration Camp and she can't get news of him and she goes on the streets and one of her children is an epileptic and the other one joins a gang and goes to the bad, and in the end this woman gets shot and the children are just left starving in a cellar. J. L. thinks that it is the very best piece of work he's ever done, and his publishers say Yes, it is, but they don't feel sure that anybody is going to want to read it just now, let alone buy it.

They have gone so far as to suggest that what people want is something more like P. G. Wodehouse, and J. L. is greatly upset, not because he does not admire P. G. Wodehouse, but because he feels himself to be so entirely incapable of emulating him.

Serena, rather fortunately, does not enquire whether my views on topical fiction coincide with those of J. L. or those of his publishers, and we proceed to the discussion of wider issues.

What does Serena think of the news?

Well, she doesn't think we're being told much. It's all very well to say our aircraft is always flying about all over Germany and the Siegfried Line, but do we really always return intact without a single casualty? Nor does she understand about Russia.

Russia, according to the news, can't do anything at all. They have masses of oil and masses of grain and probably masses of ammunition as well, but no Russian transport is apparently capable of moving a yard without instantly breaking down, all Russian ports are stiff with ice throughout three-quarters of the year, and no Russian engineers, telephone-operators, engine-drivers, miners or business executives are able at any time to take any constructive action whatsoever.

Serena cannot help feeling that if Russia had signed a pact with us, instead of with Germany, this would all be described quite differently.

She also complains that Nazi aircraft has so far directed all its activities towards the North. Scotland, in the opinion of Serena, always has been rather inclined to think itself the hub of the universe, and this will absolutely clinch it. The Scots will now suppose that the enemy share their own opinion, that Edinburgh is more important than London.

As for the Ministry of Information, Serena is sorry for it. Definitely and absolutely sorry. Look at the things that people have said about it in Parliament, and outside Parliament for that matter, and all the things in the papers! They may have made their mistakes, Serena admits, but the really fatal blunder was to call them Ministry of Information in a war where the one thing that nobody is allowed to have is any information.

Have they, she adds, done anything about me yet?

Nothing whatever.

I am proposing to go there, however, on the strength of a letter of introduction from Uncle A. who stood godfather, some thirty years ago, to the Head of one of the Departments.

He is not, as yet, aware of the privilege in store for him.

Serena hopes that I shall be able to find him, but has heard that the Ministry—situated in London University buildings—is much larger than the British Museum and far less well sign-posted. Moreover, if one asks for anybody, one is always told, firstly, that he has never been there at all; secondly, that he isn't in the department over which he is supposed to be reigning; thirdly, that the department itself is not to be found because it has moved to quite another part of the building and nobody knows where it is, and fourthly, that he left the Ministry altogether ten days ago.

Can quite see that I shall be well advised to allow plenty of time for the projected visit.

Serena's fellow worker, Muriel, appears and asks whether we have heard that the Ritz Hotel has outdistanced all other hotels, which merely advertise Air-Raid Shelter, by featuring elegant announcement outside its portals: Abri du Ritz.

Shall look at it next time I am waiting for a bus in Piccadilly, which is the only occasion on which I am in the least likely to find myself even outside entrance to the Ritz, let alone inside it.

Finish supper and return to my own side of the counter.

Inhabitants of the underworld invariably take on second lease of life towards midnight, and come in search of eggs and bacon—bacon now Off; shepherd's pie all finished; and toad-in-the-hole just crossed off the list. Do the best we can with scrambled eggs, sausages and ham—which also runs low before the night is out.

Scottish tea-dispenser presently gets down from high seat which enables her to deal with urns, and commands, rather than requests me, to take her place.

Do so quite successfully for an hour, when hot-milk tap, for no reason known to me, turns on but declines to turn off and floods the floor, also my own shoes and stockings.

Succeed in turning it off again after some damage and much expenditure of milk.

Professional cashier says Dear, dear, it does seem a waste of milk, doesn't it? and Patricia suggests without enthusiasm that it really ought to be mopped up.

Am in full agreement with both, but feel unreasonably annoyed with them and go home, after mopping-up, inclined to tell myself that I have evidently outlived such powers of usefulness as were ever mine This conviction continues during process of undressing and increases by leaps and bounds when bath-water turns out cold.

(Note: Minor calamities of life apt to assume importance in inverse ratio to advancing hours of the night. Query: Will the black-out in any way affect this state of affairs?)

Kettle in no hurry to boil water for bottle, and go to bed eventually feeling chilly and dejected.

October 31st.—Visit the Ministry of Information, and find vast area of Hall where I am eyed with disfavour by Minor Official in uniform who wishes to know what I want.

I want Mr. Molesworth, and have had enough presence of mind to arrange appointment with him by telephone.

Minor Official repeats Molesworth? in tones of utter incredulity, and fantastic wonder crosses my mind as to what he would say if I suddenly replied, Oh no, I didn't mean Molesworth at all. I just said that for fun. What I really meant all the time was Fisher.

Realise instantly that this would serve no good purpose, and reiterate Molesworth. At this Minor Official shakes his head very slowly, looks at a book, and shakes his head again.

But I have, I urge, an appointment.

This evidently necessitates calling in a second opinion, and somebody standing by a lift is asked if he knows anything about Molesworth.

Molesworth? No. Wait a minute. Molesworth? Yes.

Where can he be found?

Second Opinion hasn't the least idea. He was up on the sixth floor, last week, but that's all been changed now. Miss Hogg may know.

Miss Hogg—evidently less elusive than some of her collaborators—is telephoned to. Reply, received after a long wait, is inaudible to me but Minor Official reports that I had better try the third floor; he can't say for certain, but Mr. M. was there at one time, and Miss Hogg hasn't heard of his having moved.

Start off hopefully for lift, am directed to go right across the hall and into quite another part of the building, and take the lift there. Final inspiration of Minor Official is to ask whether I know the number of Mr. M.'s Room—which of course I don't.

Walk along lengthy passages for what seems like some time, and meet with kindness, but no definite information, from several blonde young lovelies who mostly—rather mistakenly—favour scarlet jumpers.

Compare myself mentally with Saracen lady, said to have travelled to England in search of her lover with no vocabulary except two words, London and Gilbert. (London in those days probably much smaller than Ministry of Information in these.)

Astonishment temporarily surpasses relief when I am at last definitely instructed by young red-headed thing—fortunately not in scarlet—to Room 568. Safeguards herself by adding that Mr. M. was there an hour ago, but of course he may have been moved since then.

He hasn't.

His name is on a card over the door.

Shall be surprised if I do not hear myself calling him Gilbert.

Am horrified to find myself quarter of an hour after appointed time, and feel it is only what I deserve when Mr. M. keeps me waiting for twenty minutes.

Eventually meet him face to face across his own writing-table and he is kindness and civility personified, tells me that he hasn't seen Uncle A. since early childhood but still has silver mug bestowed at his christening, and has always heard that the old gentleman is wonderful.

Yes indeed. Wonderful.

Cannot avoid the conclusion that contemplating the wonderfulness of Uncle A. will get us no further in regard to winning the war, and suggest, I hope diffidently, that I should much like to do something in this direction.

Mr. M. tells me that this war is quite unlike that of 1914. (Not where Ministries are concerned it isn't—but do not tell him this.)

In 1914, he says instructively, a tremendous Machinery had to be set in motion, and this was done with the help of unlimited expenditure and numerous experiments. This time it is all different. The Machinery is expected to be, at the very beginning, all that it was at the very end last time. And expenditure is not unlimited at all. Far from it.

I say No, I suppose not—as though having given the question a good deal of thought.

Mr. M. then successively talks about the French, the Turks, the Russians, and recent reconnaissance flights over Germany.

I suggest that I mustn't take up any more of his time. I really only wanted to see if I could do some kind of work.

He appreciates my offer, replies Mr. M., and tells me about Hore-Belisha and the House of Commons.

I offer him in return my opinion of Winston Churchill—favourable—and of Sir Samuel Hoare—not so good.

We find ourselves—I cannot say how—talking of the self-government of India.

A man with a beard and an appearance of exhaustion comes in, apologises, is begged not to go away, and we are introduced—his name inaudible to me, as doubtless mine to him.

He tells me almost at once that this war is quite unlike that of 1914. Tremendous Machinery set in motion...expenditure...experiment...This time, Machinery expected to begin at stage previously reached in 1918...

Try to look as though I haven't heard all this before, express concern at state of affairs depicted, and explain that I am anxious to place my services—etc.

Ah, says the beard, it is being found very difficult—very, very difficult indeed—to make use of all those whom the Ministry would like to make use of. Later on, no doubt, the right field of activity will present itself—much, much later on.

Does he, then, think that the war is going to be a lengthy affair?

It would, says Mr. M. gravely, be merely wishful thinking to take too optimistic a view. The probabilities are that nothing much will happen for some months—perhaps even longer. But let us not look further ahead than the winter.

The long, cold, dark, dreary, interminable winter lies ahead of us—petrol will be less, travelling more restricted, the black-out more complete and the shortage of certain foodstuffs more noticeable. People will be tired of the war. Their morale will tend to sink lower and lower.

Quote to myself:

The North wind doth blow And we shall have snow, And what will Robin do then, poor thing?

but feel that it would be quite out of place to say this aloud.

I ask instead whether there is anything I can do, to alleviate the melancholy state of things that evidently lies ahead.

All of us can do something, replies Mr. M. There are, for instance, a number of quite false rumours going about. These can be tracked to their source—(how?)—discredited and contradicted.

The man with the beard breaks in, to tell me that in the last war there were innumerable alarms concerning spies in our midst.

(As it is quite evident, notwithstanding the beard, that he was still in his cradle at the time of the last war, whilst I had left mine some twenty years earlier, this information would really come better from me to him.)

The Government wishes to sift these rumours, one and all—(they will have their hands full if they undertake anything of the kind)—and it is possible to assist them in this respect. Could I, for instance, tell him what is being said in the extreme North of England where I live?

Actually, it is in the extreme West that I live.

Of course, of course. Mr. M. knew it perfectly well—nothing he knows better—extraordinary slip of the tongue only. What exactly, then, is being said in the extreme West?

Complete blank comes over me. Can remember nothing but that we have all told ourselves that even if butter is rationed we can get plenty of clotted cream, and that we really needn't bother to take our gas-masks wherever we go.

Can only summon to my help very feeble statement to the effect that our morale seems to be in very good repair and that our evacuees seem to be settling down—at which he looks disappointed, as well he may.

Can see that my chances of getting a job—never very good—are now practically moribund.

Raise the subject again, although not confidently, and Mr. M. tells me—evidently in order to get rid of me—that I had better see Captain Skein-Tring. He is—or was, two days ago—in Room 4978, on the fourth floor, in the other building. Do I think I can find my way there?

Know perfectly well that I can't, and say so frankly, and Mr. M. sighs but handsomely offers to escort me himself, and does so.

On the way, we talk about the Papal Encyclical, Uncle A. again, and the B.B.C. Mr. M. is pained about most of the programmes and thinks they are too bright and why so much cinema organ? I defend the B.B.C. and tell him I like most of the popular music, but not the talks to housewives.

Mr. M. sighs heavily and no point of agreement is found, until we find a joint admiration for L. A. G. Strong's short stories.

Just as this desirable stage is reached, we meet with a pallid young man carrying hundreds of files, to whom Mr. M. says compassionately, Hallo, Basil, moving again?

Basil says Yes, wearily, and toils on, and Mr. M. explains that Poor Basil has been moved three times within the last ten days.

Just as he disappears from view Mr. M. recalls him, to ask if he knows whether Captain Skein-Tring is still in Propaganda, 4978. Basil looks utterly bewildered and replies that he has never heard of anybody called Skein-Tring. Anyhow, the Propaganda people have all been transferred now, and the department has been taken over by the people from National Economy.

Mr. M. groans, but pushes valiantly on, and this bulldog spirit is rewarded by totally unexpected appearance—evidently the very last thing he has expected—of Captain S.-T.'s name on the door of Room 4978. He accordingly takes me in and introduces me, assures me that I shall be absolutely all right with Jerry, hopes—I think untruthfully—that we may meet again, and goes.

Jerry—looks about my own age, wears rather defiant aspect and spectacles with preternaturally convex lenses—favours direct method of approach and says instantly that he understands that I write.

Yes, I do.

Then the one thing that those whom he designates as "All You People" have got to realise is that we must all go on exactly as usual. If we are novelists, we must go on writing novels; if poets, write poetry just as before; if our line happens to be light journalism, then let it still be light journalism. But keep away from war topics. Not a word about war.

And what about lecturing, I enquire?

Lecture by all means, replies Jerry benevolently.

Read up something about the past—not history, better keep away from history—but what about such things as Conchology, Philately, the position of Woman in the Ice Age, and so on. Anything, in fact, which may suggest itself to us that has no bearing whatever on the present international situation.

I feel obliged to point out to Jerry that the present international situation is what most people, at the moment, wish to know about.

Jerry taps on his writing-desk very imperatively indeed and tells me that All You People are the same. All anxious to do something about the war. Well, we mustn't. We must keep right out of it. Forget about it. Go on writing just as though it didn't exist.

Cannot, at this, do less than point out to Jerry that most of us are writing with a view to earning our living and those of our dependents, and this is difficult enough already without deliberately avoiding the only topic which is likely, at the present juncture, to lead to selling our works.

It won't do, says Jerry, shaking his head, it won't do at all. Authors, poets, artists—(can see that the word he really has in mind is riff-raff)—and All You People must really come into line and be content to carry on exactly as usual. Otherwise, simply doing more harm than good.

Am by this time more than convinced that Jerry has no work of national significance to offer me, and that I had better take my leave. Final flicker of spirit leads me to ask whether he realises that it is very difficult indeed to find a market for any writings just now, and Jerry replies off-handedly that, of course, the paper shortage is very severe and will get much worse—much, much worse.

At the same time it is quite on the cards that people will take to reading when they find there's absolutely nothing else to do. Old ladies, for instance, or women who are too idle and incompetent to do any war work. They may quite likely take to reading light novels in the long evenings, so as to help kill time. So long as I remember to carry on just exactly as I should if we weren't at war at all, Jerry feels sure that I shall be quite all right.

Can only get up and say Goodbye without informing him that I differ from this conclusion root and branch, and Jerry shakes hands with me with the utmost heartiness, driving ring inherited from great-aunt Julia into my finger with extremely painful violence.

Goodbye, he says, he is only too glad to have been of any help to me, and if I want advice on any other point I am not to hesitate for one moment to come and see him again.

Walk out completely dazed, with result that I pay no heed to my direction and find myself almost at once on ground floor, opposite entrance, without the slightest idea of how I got there.

(Note: Promptings of the unconscious, when it comes to questions of direction, incomparably superior to those of the conscious mind. Have serious thoughts of working this up into interesting article for any publication specialising in Psychology Made Easy.)

Rain pours down; I have no umbrella and am reluctantly compelled to seek shelter in a tea-shop where I ask for coffee and get some with skin on it. Tell myself in a fury that this could never happen in America, or any other country except England.

In spite of this, am deeply dejected at the thought that the chances of my serving my country are apparently non-existent.

November 2nd.—Tremendous outbreak of knitting overtakes the underworld—cannot say why or how. Society Deb. works exclusively in Air-Force blue, and Muriel—who alone can understand her muttered utterances—reports that Jennifer has never done any knitting before and isn't really any good at it, but her maid undoes it all when she has a night at home and knits it up again before Jennifer wakes.

Muriel is herself at work on a Balaclava helmet, elderly Messenger very busy with navy-blue which it is thought will turn into socks sooner or later, and everybody compares stitches, needles and patterns. Mrs. Peacock (reappeared, leg now well again but she still has tendency to retire to upturned box as often as possible) knits very rapidly and continuously but says nothing, until she privately reveals to me that she is merely engaged on shawl for prospective grandchild but does not like to talk about it as it seems unpatriotic.

Am sympathetic about grandchild, but inwardly rather overcome as Mrs. P. is obviously contemporary of my own and have not hitherto viewed myself as potential grandmother, but quite see that better accustom myself to this idea as soon as possible.

(Have not yet succeeded in doing so, all the same.)

Serena, also knitting—stout khaki muffler, which she says is all she can manage, and even so, broader at one end than at the other—comes and leans against Canteen counter at slack moments and tells me that she doesn't know what to do about J. L. If his novel had been accepted by publishers, she declares, it would all be quite easy because she wouldn't mind hurting his feelings, but with publishers proving discouraging and poor J. L. in deepest depression, it is, says Serena, practically impossible to say No.

Is she, then, engaged to him?

Oh no, says Serena, looking horrified.

But is she going to marry him?

Serena doesn't know. Probably not.

Remind myself that standards have changed and that I must be modern-minded, and enquire boldly whether Serena is considering having An Affair with J. L.

Serena looks unspeakably shocked and assures me that she isn't like that at all. She is very old-fashioned, and so are all her friends, and nowadays it's a wedding ring or nothing.

Am completely taken aback and realise that I have, once again, entirely failed to keep abreast of the times.

Apologise to Serena, who replies that of course it's all right and she knows that in post-last-war and pre-this-war days, people had some rather odd ideas, but they all went out with the nineteen-twenties.

Can see that, if not literally a grandmother, am definitely so in spiritual sense.

Serena then presents further, and totally unrelated, problem for my consideration. It appears that Commandant of Stretcher-party has recently resigned position in order to take up service abroad and those to whom he has given series of excellent and practical lectures have made him presentation of fountain-pen and pencil in red morocco case.

Farewell speeches have been exchanged, and red morocco case appreciatively acknowledged.

Now, however, Stretcher-party Commandant has suddenly reappeared, having been medically rejected for service abroad, and Serena feels that morocco case is probably a source of embarrassment to him.

Can make no constructive comments about this whatever, and simply tell her that next move—if any—rests entirely with Commandant of Stretcher-party.

Interruption occurs in the person of old Mrs. Winter-Gammon who comes up and asks me what I can suggest for an old lady's supper.

Steak-pudding, sausages-and-mashed or spaghetti? Mrs. W.-G. shakes her curls and screws up her eyes and says gaily, No, no, no—it's very naughty of her to say so, but none of it sounds attractive. She will have a teeny drop of soup and some brown bread-and-butter.

Collect this slender meal and place it before her, and she says that will last her until breakfast-time next morning. Her dear Edgar used to get quite worried sometimes, and tell her that she didn't eat more than a sparrow, but to this she had only one answer: Dearest one, you forget how tiny I am. I don't need more than a sparrow would. All I ask is that what I do have shall be daintily cooked and served. A vase of flowers on the table, a fringed doily or two, and I'm every bit as happy with a crust of bread and an apple as I could be with a banquet. In fact, happier.

Cannot think of any reply whatever to all this and merely look blankly at Granny Bo-peep, who smiles roguishly and informs me that she believes I'm only half-awake. (Feel that she might just as well have said half-witted.)

Can quite understand why Serena, who has also listened to Mrs. W.-G., now abruptly declares that she wants cold beef, pickles and toasted cheese for her supper.

Mrs. W.-G.—still immovable at counter—asks how I found Devonshire, and what poor Blanche is doing, and whether my husband doesn't miss me dreadfully. She herself, so long as beloved Edgar was with her, was always beside him. He often said that she knew more about his work than he did himself. That, of course, was nonsense—her talents, if she had any at all, were just the little humble domestic ones. She made their home as cosy as she could—a touch here, another one there—a few little artistic contrivances—and above all, a smile. Whatever happened, she was determined that Edgar should always see a smiling face. With that end in view, Mrs. W.-G. used to have a small mirror hanging up over her desk so that every time she raised her eyes she could see herself and make sure that the smile was there. If it wasn't, she just said to herself, Now, Pussy, what are you about? and went on looking, until the smile was there.

Am suddenly inspired to enquire of old Mrs. W.-G. what first occasioned her to share a flat with Aunt Blanche. Can never remember receiving any explanation on the point from Aunt Blanche herself, and am totally at a loss to understand why anyone should ever have wished to pursue joint existence with Granny Bo-Peep and her smile.

Ah, says Mrs. W.-G., a dear mutual friend—now Passed On—came to her, some years ago, and suggested the whole idea. Poor Blanche, in the opinion of the mutual friend, needed Taking Out of Herself. Why the friend thought that Mrs. W.-G. was the right person to accomplish this, she cannot pretend to guess—but so it was. And somehow or other—and it's no use my asking Mrs. W.-G. to explain, because she just doesn't know how it's done herself—but somehow or other, dear old Blanche did seem to grow brighter and to realise something of the sheer fun of thinking about other people, instead of about one's own little troubles. She must just have caught it, like the measles, cries Granny Bo-Peep merrily. People have always told her that she has such an infectious chuckle, and she simply can't help seeing the funny side of things. So she can only suppose that Blanche—bless her—somehow took the infection.

Then came the war, and Mrs. W.-G. instantly decided that she was nothing but a worthless old woman and must go and offer her services, and the Commandant to whom she offered them—not this one, but quite another one, now doing something entirely different in another part of England altogether—simply replied: Pussy, I only wish I was as plucky, as efficient, as cheery, and as magnificent as you are. Will you drive an ambulance?

I will, replied Mrs. W.-G., drive anything, anywhere and at any time whatsoever.

Feel that any comment I could make on this would only be in the nature of an anti-climax and am immensely relieved when Scottish voice in my ear asks would I not take over the tea-pot for a wee while?

I would, and I do.

Mysterious behaviour of tea, which is alternately black as ink and strong as death, or revoltingly pallid and with tea-leaves floating about unsymmetrically on the surface of the cup. Can see that more intelligent management of hot-water supply would remedy both states of affairs, but all experiments produce unsatisfactory results and am again compelled to recognise my own inefficiency, so unlike general competence of Granny Bo-Peep.

Dispense tea briskly for nearly an hour, discuss menu with cashier—rather good-looking Jewess—who agrees with me that it lacks variety.

Why not, I ask, have kippers, always popular? Or fish-cakes? Jewess agrees to kippers but says a fish-cake isn't a thing to eat out.

Spend some minutes in wondering what she means, until it is borne in on me that she, probably rightly, feels it desirable to have some personal knowledge as to the ingredients of fish-cakes before embarking on them.

Cannot think why imagination passes from fish-cakes to Belgrave Square ballroom somewhere about the year 1912, and myself in the company of young Guardsman—lost sight of for many years, and in any case, no longer either young or in the Guards. Realise very slowly that gramophone record of "Merry Widow" waltz is now roaring through the Canteen, and accounts for all.

Am struck by paradoxical thought that youth is by no means the happiest time of life, but that most of the rest of life is tinged by regret for its passing, and wonder what old age will feel like, in this respect. (Shall no doubt discover very shortly.)

Girl with lovely red hair—name unknown—comes up for customary meal of hot milk and one digestive biscuit and tells me that I look very profound.

I say Yes, I am very profound, and was thinking about Time.

Am rather astonished and greatly impressed when she calmly returns that she often thinks about Time herself, and has read through the whole of J. W. Dunne's book.

Did she understand it?

Well, the first two and a half pages she understood perfectly. The whole thing seemed to her so simple that she was unable to suppose that even a baby wouldn't understand it.

Then, all of a sudden, she found she wasn't understanding it any more. Complete impossibility of knowing at what page, paragraph, or even sentence, this inability first overtook her. It just was like that. At one minute she was understanding it all perfectly—at the next, all was incomprehensible.

Can only inform her that my own experiences with J. W. D. have been identical, except that I think I only understood the first two, not two and a half pages.

Decide—as often before—that one of these days I shall tackle Time and J. W. D. all over again.

In the meanwhile, fresh vogue for tea has overtaken denizens of the underworld, and I deal with it accordingly.

Nine O'clock News comes and goes unheard by me, and probably by most other people owing to surrounding din. Serena drifts up later and informs us that Lord Nuffield has been appointed Director General of Maintenance in Air Ministry. Have idle thoughts of asking him whether he would like capable, willing and efficient secretary, and am just receiving urgent pre-paid telegram from him begging me to accept the post at once when I discover that the milk has given out and supply ought to have been renewed from the kitchen ten minutes ago.

Go back to flat soon afterwards, write letter to Robert and tell him that nothing has as yet materialised from Ministry of Information—which I prefer to saying that repeated applications have proved quite unavailing—but that I am still serving at Canteen, and that everybody seems fairly hopeful.

Reflect, whilst going to bed, that I am thoroughly tired of all my clothes and cannot afford new ones.

November 4th.—Am rung up, rather to my astonishment, by Literary Agent, wishing to know What I Am Doing.

Well, I am in touch with the Ministry of Information, and also doing voluntary work at a Canteen every night. At the same time, if he wishes to suggest that I should use my pen for the benefit of the country...

No, he hasn't anything of that kind to suggest. On the contrary. The best thing I can do is just carry on exactly as usual, and no doubt I am at work on a new novel at this very moment.

I urge that it's very difficult to give one's mind to a new novel under present conditions, and Literary Agent agrees that doubtless this is so, but it is my plain duty to make the attempt. He has said the same thing to all his authors.

Reflection occurs to me later, though not, unfortunately, at moment of conversation, that if all of them take his advice the literary market will be completely swamped with novels in quite a short time, and authors' chances of making a living, already very precarious, will cease to exist at all.

Spend some time at writing-desk, under hazy impression that I am thinking out a new novel. Discover at the end of two hours that I have achieved rather spirited little drawing on cover of telephone-book of man in a fez—slightly less good representation of rustic cottage, Tudor style, front elevation, on envelope of Aunt Blanche's last letter—also written two cheques meeting long-overdue accounts—smoked (apparently) several cigarettes, of which I have no recollection whatever, and carefully cut out newspaper advertisement of Fleecy-lined Coats with Becoming Hoods—which I have no intention whatever of purchasing.

New novel remains wholly elusive.

Telephone rings again: on raising receiver become aware of tremendous pandemonium of sound which tells me instantly that this must be the Adelphi underworld.

It is.

May Serena bring round J. L. for a drink at about 6.30 this evening? He would like to talk about his new novel. Reply mirthlessly that perhaps he would also like to hear about mine—but this cynical reference wasted, as Serena only replies What? and adds Blast this place, it's like a rookery, only worse.

Tell her that it doesn't matter, and I can tell her later, and she suggests that if I scream straight into the mouthpiece very loud, she'll probably be able to hear—but I again assure her that this would be wasted energy.

We end conversation—if conversation it can be called—with reciprocal assurances that we shall look forward to meeting at my flat, 6.30. P.M., with J. L. in Serena's train.

Go to wine merchant at corner of the street and tell him that I require an Amontillado—which is the only name I know in the sherry world—and that I hope he has some in stock.

Well—Amontillado is now very, very difficult to obtain—(knew perfectly well he was going to say this)—but he thinks he can supply me. That is, if I do not require it in any very great quantity.

Had actually only considered purchasing a single bottle but have not now got the face to say so, and reply that two bottles will satisfy me for the moment. (Distinct implication here that I shall be back in about an hour's time for several more.)

Ah, then in that case—says wine merchant with quite unabated suavity of manner, for which I think highly of him.

We hold very brief discussion as to the degree of dryness required in sherry, in which I hope I produce an effect of knowing the subject à fond—and I pay for my two bottles and am told that they will be delivered within a few moments at my door—which in fact they are.

Proceed to purchase of small cheese biscuits, and hope that Serena will think I have done her credit.

Canteen duty follows—very uneventful interlude. Serena not on duty, and Granny Bo-Peep visible only in the distance where she is—apparently—relating the story of her life to group of Decontamination men who seem, unaccountably, to find it interesting.

Mrs. Peacock tells me that Old Moore predicted the war and said that it would come to an end in 1940. Did he, whilst about it, say in what month? Mrs. Peacock thinks he said November, but is not sure, and I suggest that he was mixing it up with the Great War, at which she seems hurt.

Shift comes to an end at six o'clock, and I leave underworld thinking how best to arrange seating for three people in flat sitting-room, which is scarcely large enough to contain two with any comfort, when folding-table is extended to receive Amontillado and glasses.

Find flat door wide open, curtains drawn—(no brown paper)—lamp and fire burning merrily, and Serena entertaining J. L., Muriel and unknown young man of film-star appearance. Table has been set up, Amontillado opened, and agreeable haze of cigarette-smoke fills the air.

Serena says It's lovely that I've come at last, and she hopes it's all right, she thought I should wish them to have a drink, and couldn't she pour one out for me?

Agree that she could, and congratulate myself inwardly on having dealt with lipstick, powder and pocket comb on the stairs.

Ensuing party proves gay and amusing, and I enter into conversation with film-star young man, who tells me that he has been reading J. L.'s novel in typescript and thinks it very good. Have I seen it?

No, I've only heard about it from Serena. What is it called? It is called Poached Eggs to the Marble Arch.

At this I bend my head appreciatively as if to say that's exactly the sort of name I should have expected from a really good modern novelist, and then have the wind taken out of my sails when young film-star observes thoughtfully that he thinks it's an utterly vague and off-putting title. But, he adds candidly, he isn't absolutely sure he's got it right. It might be Poached Eggs ON the Marble Arch, or even Poached Eggs AT the Marble Arch.

Conversation then becomes general, and Serena and Muriel talk about their war service and I say nothing about mine—not from modesty but because Canteen work very unimpressive—and film-star young man reveals that he has just joined the Air Force Reserve, and isn't a film-star at all but a psychiatrist, and that ever since war started he has had no patients at all as most of the ones he had before were children who have been sent away from London.

Enquire at once whether he knows Rose, in very similar position to his own, and he says he knows her well by name. This does not, really, get us very much further.

J. L. looks, as before, intelligent and melancholy and latter expression seems to be merely deepened by Amontillado. Curiously opposite effect is produced on myself and I become unusually articulate and—I think—very witty about the Ministry of Information.

This conviction deepened every moment by shrieks of laughter from Serena and Muriel, definite appearance of amusement on face which still seems to me that of a film-star, and even faint smiles from J. L.

Am regretful when S. and M. declare that duty now calls them to the Adelphi. (It must, to be accurate, have been calling for rather more than an hour, as both were due there at seven o'clock.)

They take some time to make their farewells, and are escorted away by pseudo film-star, who thanks me very earnestly for having invited him. Do not, naturally, point out to him that I didn't do so and have, in fact, no idea who did.

J. L. to my astonishment enquires whether I am, by any possible chance, free for dinner this evening?

Am entirely free, and say so instantly, and J. L. invites me to come and dine somewhere with him at once and go on afterwards to Arts Club of which he is a member, and listen to Ridgeway's Late Joys. They sing Victorian songs and the audience joins in the choruses.

Am entranced at this prospect and only hope that effect of Amontillado will not have worn off by the time we get there, as should certainly join in choruses, Victorian or otherwise, far better if still under its influence.

J. L. and I depart forthwith into the black-out, and are compelled to cling to one another as we go, and even so do not escape minor collisions with sandbags and kindly expressed, but firm, rebuke from the police for displaying electric-torch beams too freely.

J. L. takes me to nice little restaurant and orders excellent dinner, and then talks to me about Serena.

He is, he admits, practically in despair about Serena. She has charm, she has intelligence, she has brains, she has looks—but would marriage with her be a hundred per cent success?

Can only tell him that I really have no idea, and that very few marriages are a hundred per cent success, but that on the other hand most people would think even seventy-five per cent quite handsome. Is he, if I may ask, engaged to Serena?

Oh dear, no.

Has he—if he doesn't mind my asking—asked Serena to be engaged to him?

Well, yes and no.

Can only look at him in despair, and reflect with no originality whatever that Things have Changed in the last twenty years.

J. L. continues to maunder, but breaks off to ask what I would like to drink, and to hold quite animated discussion about Alsatian wine with the wine-waiter—then relapses into distress and refers to Serena as being at once the Worst and the Best Thing in his life.

Can see that nothing I say will make the slightest impression on him and that I may just as well save myself exertion of thinking by merely looking interested and sympathetic.

This succeeds well until J. L. suddenly bends forward and enquires earnestly whether I don't feel that Serena is too highly-strung to be the ideal wife for a writer. I inform him in return, without hesitation, that the point seems to me quite insignificant and that what really disturbs me is the conviction that writers are too egotistical to make ideal husbands for anybody.

J. L. instantly agrees with me but is evidently quite fatalistic about it and has no intention whatever of reforming.

Can only suggest to him that perhaps we had better start for Late Joys or we shall be late.

He agrees amiably and cheers up more and more as evening progresses—just as well, as I am perfectly enraptured by beautifully-produced performance of the Joys and too much absorbed to pay any attention to him even if suicidal tendencies should develop.

Instead, however, J. L. joins in chorus to "See me Dance the Polka" and "Her Golden Hair was Hanging Down her Back" in unexpectedly powerful baritone, and we drink beer and become gayer and gayer until reluctantly compelled to leave theatre.

November 9th.—Bomb Explosion in Munich Beer-hall reported, apparently timed to coincide with speech by Hitler and to destroy him and numerous Nazi leaders seated immediately beneath spot where bomb was placed. Hitler said to have finished speech twenty minutes earlier than usual, and left Hall just—(from his point of view)—in time.

Hear all this from wireless at 8 A.M. and rush out into the Strand where posters tell me that Hess was amongst those killed, and I buy three newspapers and see that Hess is only reported killed. Can only say that instincts of Christianity and civilisation alike are severely tried, and am by no means prepared to state that they emerge victorious.

Have invited Lady Blowfield to lunch at Club as small return for past hospitality and also with faint hope of her eventually inducing Sir Archibald to suggest war job for me, and proceed there by bus, which fails to materialise for at least twenty minutes and is then boarded by about five hundred more people than it can possibly accommodate.

Situation very reminiscent of 1914 and succeeding years.

Hess resurrected on posters.

Reach Club just before one, am told by hall-porter that my guest has not yet arrived and go to upstairs drawing-room, which is filled with very, very old ladies in purple wool cardigans, and exceedingly young ones in slacks. No golden mean achieved between youth and age, excepting myself.

Small room off drawing-room contains wireless, to which I hasten, and find fearfully distraught-looking member—grey hair all over the place and spectacles on the floor—who glances at me and tells me imperatively to Hush!

I do Hush, to the extent of not daring even to sit down on a chair, and One O'clock News repeats the information that Hitler left Munich Beer-hall exactly fifteen minutes before bomb exploded.

At this, grey-haired member astounds me by wringing her hands—have never seen this done before in real earnest—and emits a sort of frantic wail to the effect that it's dreadful—dreadful! That he should just have missed it by quarter of an hour! Why, oh, why couldn't they have timed it better?

Moral conflict assails me once more at this, since I am undeniably in sympathy with her, but at the same time rather shattered by her unusual outspokenness. No comment fortunately necessary, or even possible, as she desperately increases volume of wireless to bellowing-point, then extinguishes it with equal lack of moderation.

Can see that she is in totally irresponsible frame of mind and feel very sorry for her.

Try to convey this by a look when News is over, and am only to successful as she at once pours out a torrent of rather disconnected phrases, and ends up by asking what my views are.

There will, I assure her, be a revolution in Germany very soon.

She receives this not-very-novel theory with starting eyes and enquires further whether It will come from the top, or from the bottom.

Both, I reply without hesitation, and leave the room before she has time to say more.

Lady Blowfield awaits me—hat with a black feather, very good-looking fur cape, and customary air of permanent anxiety—and we exchange greetings and references—moderate at least in tone—to Munich explosion, Hess being authoritatively declared alive and unhurt on the strength of responsible newspapers seen by Lady Blowfield.

Offer her sherry which she declines—am rather sorry, as I should have liked some myself but feel it now quite out of the question—and we proceed to dining-room.

Has she, I ask, any news about the war other than that which is officially handed out to all of us?

Lady Blowfield at once replies that Gitnik, whom I shall remember meeting, has flown to Paris and that therefore she has not seen him. He is, I shall naturally understand, her chief authority on world affairs—but failing him, Archibald has a certain amount of inside information—in a comparatively small way—and he has said that, in his opinion, the war will begin very soon now.

Am much dejected by this implication, although I—like everybody else—have frequently said myself that It hasn't yet Started.

Has Sir Archibald given any intimation of the place or time selected for the opening of hostilities?

Lady Blowfield shakes her head and says that Holland is in great danger, so is Belgium, so are Finland and Sweden. At the same time it is perfectly certain that Hitler's real objective is England, and he is likely to launch a tremendous air-attack against not only London, but the whole of the country. It is nonsense—wishful thinking, in fact—to suggest that winter will make any difference. Weather will have nothing to do with it. Modern aircraft can afford to ignore all weather conditions.

Has Lady Blowfield any information at all as to when this attack may be expected?

Lady Blowfield—not unreasonably—says that it won't be expected at all.

Conversation, to my relief, is here interrupted by prosaic enquiry from waitress as to our requirements and I urge grapefruit and braised chicken on Lady Blowfield and again suggest drink. Would willingly stand her entire bottle of anything at all, in the hope of cheering her up. She rejects all intoxicants, however, and sips cold water.

What, she wishes to know, am I doing with my time? Am I writing anything? Archibald, no later than the day before yesterday, wished to know whether I was writing anything in particular, and whether I realised how useful I could be in placing before the public points which it was desirable for them to know.

Feel more hopeful at this, and ask what points?

There is, replies Lady Blowfield, the question of Root Vegetables. English housewives do not make the best use of these, in cooking. An attractive pamphlet on the subject of Root Vegetables might do a lot just now.

Can only suppose that I look as unenthusiastic as I feel, since she adds, with rather disappointed expression, that if I don't care about that, there is a real need, at the moment, for literature that shall be informative, helpful, and at the same time amusing, about National Economy. How to avoid waste in the small household, for instance.

Tell her that if I knew how to avoid waste in the small household, I should find myself in a very different position financially from that in which I am at present, and Lady Blowfield then shifts her ground completely and suggests that I should Read It Up.

She will send me one or two little booklets, if I like. I have the honesty to admit in reply that I have, in the past, obtained numbers of little booklets, mostly at Women's Institutes, and have even read some of them, but cannot feel that the contents have ever altered the course of my days.

Ah, says Lady Blowfield darkly, perhaps not now, but when the war is over—though heaven alone knows when that may be—then I shall realise how difficult mere existence is going to be, and that all life will have to be reorganised into something very, very different from anything we have ever known before. Have frequently thought and said the same thing myself, but am nevertheless depressed when I hear it from Lady Blowfield. (This quite unreasonable, especially as I hold definite opinion that entire readjustment of present social system is desirable from every point of view.)

Shall we, I next suggest with an air of originality, try and forget about the war and talk about something entirely different? Lady Blowfield, though seeming astonished, agrees and at once asks me if by any chance I know of a really good kitchen-maid—she believes they are easier to find now—as hers is leaving to be married.

(If this is part of Lady Blowfield's idea of preparing for entirely reorganised scheme of life, can only say that it fails to coincide with mine.)

Am compelled to admit that I am a broken reed indeed as regards kitchen-maids, and enquire whether Lady Blowfield has seen George and Margaret.

No, she says, who are George and Margaret? Do I mean Daisy Herrick-Delaney and poor dear Lord George?

Explain what I do mean.

She has not seen George and Margaret and does not sound, even after I have assured her that it is very amusing, as if she either wished or intended to do so.

Fortunately recollect at this stage that the Blowfields are friends of Robert's married sister in Kenya—whom I have only met twice and scarcely know—and we discuss her and her children—whom I have never met at all—for the remainder of luncheon.

Coffee subsequently served in library is excellent and Lady Blowfield compliments me on it, and says how rare it is to find good coffee, and I agree whole-heartedly and feel that some sort of rapprochement may yet take place between us.

If so, however, it must be deferred to another occasion, as Lady Blowfield looks at her watch, screams faintly, and asserts that her Committee will be expecting her at this very moment and she must Fly.

She does fly—though not rapidly—and I retire to Silence Room with every intention of writing out brief, but at the same time complete, synopsis of new novel.

Two members are already seated in Silence Room, hissing quietly at one another, but lapse into frustrated silence at my entrance.

Sit down at writing-table with my back to them but can feel waves of resentment still emanating towards me.

Tell myself quite firmly that this is Great Nonsense, and that anyway they can perfectly well go and talk somewhere which isn't a Silence Room, and that I really must give my mind to proposed synopsis.

Do so, for what seems like three weeks.

Customary pen-and-ink drawings result and lead me to wonder, without much conviction, whether I have perhaps mistaken my vocation and should have done better as black-and-white artist. Brief dream ensues of myself in trousers, smock and large black bow, figuring in Bohemian life on the rive gauche at the age of twenty-two. Have just been escorted by group of enthusiastic fellow students to see several of my own works of art exhibited at the Salon, when recollections of Robert and the children—cannot say why or how—suddenly come before me, and I realise that all are quite unsuitable figures in scene that Fancy has depicted.

Revert once more to synopsis.

Cannot imagine why concentration should prove next door to impossible, until instinct tells me that psychic atmosphere is again distinctly hostile, and that the hissing members are probably wishing I would drop down dead.

Look cautiously round for them, and see that one is sleeping heavily and the other has completely disappeared.

(How? Have not heard door either open or shut. Have evidently concentrated better than I supposed. But on what? Answer comes there none.)

Inspiration, without a word of warning, descends upon me and I evolve short and rather flippant topical article which may reasonably be expected to bring me in a small sum of money, fortunately payable in guineas, not pounds.

Am highly elated—frame of mind which will undoubtedly undergo total eclipse on re-reading article in type—and return to Buckingham Street. Remember quite a long while afterwards that projected synopsis is still non-existent.

Find flat occupied, on my arrival, by Serena—face a curious shade of green—who says that she feels rather like death and has leave of absence for an hour in order to get into the fresh air. This she has evidently elected to do by putting on electric fire, shutting the window, boiling the kettle and drinking quantities of very strong tea.

Commiserate with her, and suggest that conditions under which she is serving the country are both very strenuous and extremely unhygienic and that she may shortly be expected to break down under them.

Serena says Yes, she quite agrees.

Then what about trying something else?

Yes, replies Serena, but what? Everybody she knows, practically, is trying to Get Into Something, and everybody is being told that, whilst everybody is urgently needed, nobody can be given any work at the moment. Quite highly qualified persons are, she asserts, begging and imploring to be allowed to scrub floors and wash dishes without pay, but nobody will have them.

Am obliged to admit that this is only too true.

And there is another thing, says Serena. The moment—the very moment—that she leaves her A.R.P., there will be an air-raid over London. Then she will have had all these weeks and weeks of waiting about for nothing, and will just have to cower in a basement like everybody else while old Granny Bo-Peep is getting all the bombs.

Assure Serena that while I know what she means—which I do—it seems to me an absolute certainty that Granny Bo-Peep will succeed in getting well into the middle of whatever calamity may occur, and in getting out of it again with unimpaired spirits and increased prestige.

I therefore suggest that Serena may put her out of her calculations altogether.

Serena—surely rather exasperatingly?—declares that she wasn't really thinking what she was saying, and Granny Bo-Peep doesn't come into it at all.

Then what does?

Serena's only reply is to weep.

Am very sorry for her, tell her so, give her a kiss, suggest brandy, all to no avail. Remember Spartan theory many times met with both in literature and in life, that hysterical tendencies can be instantly checked by short, sharp word of command or, in extreme cases, severe slap. Do not feel inclined for second alternative, but apply the first—with the sole result that Serena cries much harder than before.

Spartan theory definitely discredited.

Electric bell is heard from below, and Serena says Oh, good heavens, is someone coming! and rushes into the bedroom.

Someone turns out to be The Times Book Club, usually content to leave books in hall but opportunely inspired on this occasion to come up the stairs and demand threepence.

This I bestow on him and we exchange brief phrases about the weather—wet—the war—not yet really begun—and Hitler's recent escape from assassination—better luck next time. (This last contribution from Times Book Club, but endorsed by myself.)

Times Book Club clatters away again, and I look at what he has brought—murder story by Nicholas Blake, which I am delighted to see, and historical novel by author unknown but well spoken of in reviews.

Serena emerges again—nose powdered until analogy with Monte Rosa in a snowstorm is irresistibly suggested, but naturally keep it to myself—and says she is very sorry indeed, she's quite all right now and she can't imagine what made her so idiotic.

Could it, I hint, by any possible chance be over-fatigue and lack of adequate sleep and fresh air?

Serena says that has nothing to do with it, and I think it inadvisable to dispute the point.

She again consults me about J. L. (who has so recently consulted me about her) and I again find it wiser to remain silent while she explains how difficult it all is and admits to conviction that whatever they decide, both are certain to be wretched.

She then becomes much more cheerful, tells me how kind and helpful I have been, and takes affectionate farewell.

Indulge in philosophical reflections on general feminine inability to endure prolonged strain without emotional collapse.

November 11th.—Armistice Day, giving rise to a good many thoughts regarding both past and present. Future, to my mind, better left to itself, but this view evidently not universally held, as letters pour out from daily and weekly Press full of suggestions as to eventual peace terms and reorganisation of the world in general.

Telephone to Robert, who says nothing in particular but seems pleased to hear my voice.

Interesting, but rather academic, letter from Robin full of references to New Ideology but omitting any reply to really very urgent enquiry from myself regarding new winter vests.

November 12th.—Take afternoon duty instead of evening at Canteen and learn that Society Deb. has developed signs of approaching nervous breakdown and been taken away by her mother. Girl with curls—Muriel—has disappeared, unnoticed by anybody at all, until she is required to take a car to Liverpool Street station, when hue and cry begins and Serena finally admits that Muriel has a fearful cold and went home to bed three days ago without notifying anybody at all.

Defence offered by Serena is to the effect that Muriel thought, as she wasn't doing anything, she could easily go and come back again unperceived.

Various members of personnel are likewise wilting, and Serena looks greener than ever.

Commandant can be heard raging at Darling behind closed door of office, and is said to have uttered to the effect that if there's any more of this rank insubordination she is going to hand in her resignation. In fact she would do so at once, if she didn't happen to realise, as nobody else appears to do, that England Is At War.

Have serious thoughts of asking her whether she hasn't heard anybody say that It Hasn't yet Started? If not, this establishes a record.

Afternoon very slack and principal activities consist in recommending the bread-and-butter and toast, which can honestly be done, to all enquirers—saying as little as possible about the buns—and discouraging all approaches to jam tarts.

Mrs. Peacock offers me half-seat on her box, which I accept, and we look at new copy of very modern illustrated weekly, full of excellent photographs. Also read with passionate interest Correspondence Column almost entirely devoted to discussion of recent issue which apparently featured pictures considered by two-thirds of its readers to be highly improper, and by the remainder, artistic in the extreme.

Mrs. P. and I are at one in our regret that neither of us saw this deplorable contribution, and go so far as to wonder if it is too late to get hold of a copy.

Not, says Mrs. P., that she likes that kind of thing—very far from it—but one can't help wondering how far the Press will go nowadays, and she hadn't realised that there was anything left which would shock anybody.

Am less pessimistic than she is about this, but acknowledge that, although not particularly interested on my own account, I feel that one might as well see what is being put before the younger generation.

Having delivered ourselves of these creditable sentiments, Mrs. P. and I look at one another, both begin to laugh, and admit candidly distressing fact that both of us are definitely curious.

Mrs. P. then recklessly advocates two cups of tea, which we forthwith obtain and prepare to drink whilst seated on upended sugar-box, but intense activity at counter instantly surges into being and requirements of hitherto non-existent clients rise rapidly to peak height.

By the time these have been dealt with, and used cups, plates and saucers collected and delivered to kitchen, cups of tea have grown cold and all desire for refreshment passed, and Mrs. P. says That's life all over, isn't it?

Return to Buckingham Street and find telephone message kindly taken down by caretaker, asking if I can lunch with Mr. Pearman to-morrow at one o'clock, and the house is No. 501 Sloane Street and can be found in the telephone book under name of Zonal.

Am utterly bewildered by entire transaction, having never, to my certain knowledge, heard either of Mr. Pearman or anyone called Zonal in my life, and Sloane Street address—Cadwallader House—conveying nothing whatever to me.

Enquire further details of caretaker.

She says apologetically that the line was very bad—she thinks the war has made a difference—and she asked for the name three times, but didn't like to go on.

Then she isn't quite certain that it was Pearman?

Well, no, she isn't. It sounded like that, the first time, but after that she didn't feel so sure, but she didn't like to go on bothering the lady.

Then was Mr. Pearman a lady? I enquire,

This perhaps not very intelligently worded but entirely comprehensible to caretaker, who replies at once that he was, and said that I should know who it was.

Adopt new line of enquiry and suggest that Zonal not very probable in spite of being in telephone book.

But at this caretaker takes up definite stand. Zonal, Z for zebra, and she particularly asked to have it spelt because it seemed so funny but it's in the book all right—Brigadier A. B. Zonal—and Cadwallader House is that new block of flats up at the end.

Decide that the only thing to do is ring up Cadwallader House and ask for either Pearman or Zonal.

Line proves to be engaged.

I say that The Stars in their Courses are Fighting against Me, and caretaker, whom I have forgotten, looks extremely startled and suggests that perhaps I could ring up again later—which seems reasonable and obvious solution.

Make fresh attempt, am told that I am speaking to the hall-porter and enquire if there is anyone in the house of the name of Pearman—or, I add weakly, anything like that.

Will I spell the name?

I do.

No, the hall-porter is very sorry, but he doesn't know of anybody of that name. I don't mean old Mrs. Wain, by any chance, do I?

Decline old Mrs. Wain, and suggest Zonal, of whom I am unable to give any other particulars than that he is a Brigadier.

Brigadier Zonal, says the porter, lives on the second floor, and his niece and her friend are staying there. The niece is Miss Armitage, and the other lady is Miss Fairmead.

Everything, I tell the porter, is explained. It is Miss Fairmead, of course, and would he ask her to speak to me? Porter—evidently man of imperturbable calm—replies Very good, madam, and I assure the caretaker—still hovering—that the name may have sounded like Mr. Pearman but was in reality Miss Fairmead. She replies that she did think of its being that at one time, but it didn't seem likely, somehow.

Consider this highly debatable point, but decide to let it drop and thank her instead for her trouble. (Trouble, actually, has been entirely mine.)

Explanation with Felicity Fairmead ensues. She is in London for two nights only, staying with Veronica Armitage, whom I don't know, in her turn staying with her uncle Brigadier Zonal, who has kindly offered hospitality to Felicity as well.

She and Veronica are leaving London the day after to-morrow, will I come and lunch to-morrow and meet Veronica? Also, naturally, the uncle—who will be my host.

Agree to all and say how glad I am to think of seeing Felicity, and should like to meet Veronica, of whom I have heard much. And, of course, the uncle.

November 13th.—Lunch—at Brigadier Zonal's expense—with Felicity, who is looking particularly nice in dark red with hair very well set. Veronica turns out pretty, with attractive manners, but is shrouded in blue woollen hood, attributable to violent neuralgia from which she is only just recovering.

Uncle not present after all, detained at War Office on urgent business.

Felicity asks respectfully after my war work—am obliged to disclaim anything of national significance—and immediately adds solicitous enquiry as to the state of my overdraft.

Can only reply that it is much what it always was—certainly no better—and my one idea is to economise in every possible way, and what about Felicity herself?

Nothing, declares Felicity, is paying any dividends at all. The last one she received was about twenty-five pounds less than it should have been and she paid it into the Bank and it was completely and immediately swallowed up by her overdraft. It just didn't exist any more. And the extraordinary thing is, she adds thoughtfully, that although this invariably happens whenever she pays anything into her Bank, the overdraft never gets any smaller. On the contrary.

She has asked her brother to explain this to her, and he has done so, but Felicity has failed to understand the explanation.

Perhaps, I suggest, the brother wasn't very clear?

Oh yes he was, absolutely. He knows a great deal about finance. It was just that Felicity hasn't got that kind of a mind.

Sympathise with her once more, admit—what she has known perfectly well ever since long-ago schooldays—that I haven't got that kind of mind either, and enquire what Veronica feels about it all.

Veronica thinks it's dreadful, and most depressing, and wouldn't it cheer us both up to go out shopping?

Personally, she has always found that shopping, even on a tiny scale, does one a great deal of good. She also feels that Trade ought to be encouraged.

Felicity and I readily agree to encourage Trade on a tiny scale. It is, I feel, imperative that I should get myself some stockings, and send Vicky a cake, and Felicity is prepared to encourage Trade to the extent of envelopes and a hair-net.

Veronica, in the absence of the uncle, presides over a most excellent lunch, concluding with coffee, chocolates and cigarettes, and gratifies me by taking it for granted that we are on Christian-name terms.

Felicity looks at me across the table and enquires with her eyebrows What I think of Veronica? to which I reply, like Lord Burleigh, with a nod.

We discuss air-raids—Germany does not mean to attack London for fear of reprisals—she does mean to attack London but not till the spring—she hasn't yet decided whether to attack London or not. This war, in Felicity's brother's opinion, is just as beastly as the last one but will be shorter.

Enquire of Veronica what the uncle thinks, and she answers that, being in the War Office, he practically never tells one anything at all. Whether from discretion, or because he doesn't know, Veronica isn't sure—but inclines to the latter theory.

Shortly afterwards Felicity puts on her hat and extremely well-cut coat—which has the effect of making me feel that mine isn't cut at all but just hangs on me—and we say goodbye to Veronica and her blue hood.

Agreeable hour is spent in Harrods Stores, and I get Vicky's cake but substitute black felt hat and a check scarf for stockings. Felicity, who has recently had every opportunity of inspecting woollen hoods at close quarters, becomes passionately absorbed in specimens on counter and wishes to know if I think crochet or knitted would suit Veronica best. Do not hesitate to tell her that to me they look exactly alike and that, anyway, Veronica has a very nice one already.

Felicity agrees, but continues to inspect hoods none the less, and finally embarks on discussion with amiable shop-girl as to relative merits of knitting and crochet. She eventually admits that she is thinking of making a hood herself as friend with whom she is living as P.G. in the country does a great deal of knitting and Felicity does not like to be behindhand. Anyway, she adds, she isn't of any use to anybody, or doing anything to win the war.

Point out to her that very few of us are of any use, unless we can have babies or cook, and that none of us—so far as I can see—are doing anything to win the war. I also explain how different it will all be with Vicky's generation, and how competent they all are, able to cook and do housework and make their own clothes. Felicity and I then find ourselves, cannot say how, sitting on green sofa in large paved black-and-white hall in the middle of Harrods, exchanging the most extraordinary reminiscences.

Felicity reminds me that she was never, in early youth, allowed to travel by herself, that she shared a lady's-maid with her sister, that she was never taught cooking, and never mended her own clothes.

Inform her in return that my mother's maid always used to do my hair for me, that I was considered industrious if I practised the piano for an hour in the morning, that nobody expected me to lift a finger on behalf of anybody else, except to write an occasional note of invitation, and that I had no idea how to make a bed or boil an egg until long after my twenty-first year.

We look at one another in the deepest dismay at these revelations of our past incompetence, and I say that it's no wonder the world is in the mess it's in to-day.

Felicity goes yet further, and tells me that, in a Revolution, our heads would be the first to go—and quite right too. But at this I jib and say that, although perhaps not really important assets to the community, we are, at least, able and willing to mend our ways and have in fact been learning to do so for years and years and years.

Felicity shakes her head and asserts that it's different for me, I've had two children and I write books. She herself is nothing but a cumberer of the ground and often contemplates her own utter uselessness without seeing any way of putting it right. She isn't intellectual, she isn't mechanically-minded, she isn't artistic, she isn't domesticated, she isn't particularly practical and she isn't even strong.

Can see, by Felicity's enormous eyes and distressed expression, that she would, in the event of the Revolution she predicts, betake herself to the scaffold almost as a matter of course.

Can only assure her, with the most absolute truth, that she possesses the inestimable advantages of being sympathetic, lovable and kind, and what the devil does she want more? Her friends, I add very crossly, would hate to do without her, and are nothing if not grateful for the way in which she always cheers them up.

Felicity looks at me rather timidly—cannot imagine why—and suggests that I am tired and would it be too early for a cup of tea?

It wouldn't, and we go in search of one.

Realise quite suddenly, and for no reason whatever, that I have lost my gas-mask, in neat new leather case.

Had I, I agitatedly ask Felicity, got it on when I arrived at Cadwallader House?

Felicity is nearly certain I had. But she couldn't swear. In fact, she thinks she is really thinking of someone else. Can I remember if I had it on when I left home?

I am nearly certain I hadn't. But I couldn't swear either. Indeed, now I come to think of it, I am, after all, nearly certain I last saw it lying on my bed, with my National Registration Card.

Then is my National Registration Card lost too?

If it's on the bed in my flat, it isn't, and if it's not, then it is. Agitated interval follows.

Felicity telephones to Cadwallader House—negative result—then to Buckingham Street caretaker, who goes up to look in bedroom but finds nothing, and I return to green sofa in black-and-white hall where places so recently occupied by Felicity and self are now taken up by three exquisite young creatures with lovely faces and no hats, smoking cigarettes and muttering to one another. They look at me witheringly when I enquire whether a gas-mask has been left there, and assure me that it hasn't, and as it is obviously inconceivable that they should be sitting on it unaware, can only apologise and retreat to enquire my way to Lost Property Office.

Am very kindly received, asked for all particulars and to give my name and address, and assured that I shall be notified if and when my gas-mask appears.

Felicity points out that loss of National Registration Card is much more serious and will necessitate a personal application to Caxton Hall, and even then I shall only get a temporary one issued. Can I remember when I saw mine last?

On my bed, with my gas-mask.

It couldn't have been, says Felicity, because caretaker says there's nothing there except a handkerchief and the laundry.

Then it must have got underneath the laundry.

Neither of us really believes this consoling theory, but it serves to buoy me up till I get home and find—exactly as I really expected—that nothing is underneath the laundry except the bed.

Extensive search follows and I find myself hunting madly in quite impossible spots, such as small enamelled box on mantelpiece, and biscuit-tin which to my certain knowledge has never contained anything except biscuits.

Serena walks in whilst this is going on and expresses great dismay and commiseration, and offers to go at once to the underworld where she feels certain I must have left both gas-mask and National Registration Card.

Tell her that I never took either of them there in my life. It is well known that gas-mask is not obligatory within seven minutes' walk of home, and National Registration Card has lived in my bag.

Then have I, asks Serena with air of one inspired, have I looked in my bag?

Beg Serena, if she has nothing more helpful than this to suggest, to leave me to my search.

November 14th.—Visit Caxton Hall, and am by no means sure that I ought not to do so in sackcloth with rope round my neck and ashes on my head.

Am not, however, the only delinquent. Elderly man stands beside me at counter where exhausted-looking official receives me, and tells a long story about having left card in pocket of his overcoat at his Club. He then turned his back for the space of five minutes and overcoat was instantly stolen.

Official begs him to fill in a form and warns him that he must pay a shilling for new Registration Card.

Elderly gentleman appalls me by replying that he cannot possibly do that. He hasn't got a shilling.

Official, unmoved, says he needn't pay it yet. It will do when he actually receives the new card. It will perhaps then, he adds kindly, be more convenient.

The only reply of elderly gentleman is to tell the story of his loss all over again—overcoat, card in pocket, Club, and theft during the five minutes in which his back was turned. Official listens with patience, although no enthusiasm, and I am assailed by ardent desire to enquire (a) name of Club, (b) how he can afford to pay his subscription to it if he hasn't got a shilling.

Endeavour to make my own story as brief as possible by way of contrast—can this be example of psychological phenomenon frequently referred to by dear Rose as compensating?—but find it difficult to make a good showing when I am obliged to admit that I have no idea either when or where National Registration Card was lost.

Nothing for it, says official, but to fill up a form and pay the sum of one shilling.

I do so; at the same time listen to quavering of very old person in bonnet and veil who succeeds me.

She relates, in very aggrieved tones, that she was paying a visit in Scotland when National Registration took place and her host and hostess registered her without her knowledge or permission. This resulted in her being issued with a ration book. She does not wish for a ration book. She didn't ask for one, and won't have one.

Should like to hear much more of this, but official removes completed form, issues me with receipt for my shilling and informs me that I shall be communicated with in due course.

Can see no possible excuse for lingering and am obliged to leave Caxton Hall without learning what can be done for aged complainant. Reflect as I go upon extraordinary tolerance of British bureaucrats in general and recall everything I have heard or read as to their counterparts in Germany. This very nearly results in my being run over by bus in Victoria Street, and I am retrieved into safety by passer-by on the pavement, who reveals himself as Humphrey Holloway looking entirely unfamiliar in London clothes.

Look at him in idiotic astonishment, but eventually pull myself together and say that I'm delighted to meet him, and is he up here for long?

No, he doesn't think so. He has come up in order to find Something to Do as his services as Billeting Officer are now at an end.

Do not like to tell him how extremely slender I consider his chances of succeeding in this quest. Instead, I ask for news of Devonshire.

H. H. tells me that he saw Robert at church on Sunday and that he seemed all right.

Was Aunt Blanche there as well?

Yes, she was all right too.

And Marigold and Margery?

Both seemed to be quite all right.

Am rather discouraged by these laconic announcements and try to lure H. H. into details Did Robert say anything about his A.R.P. work?

He said that the woman who is helping him—H. H. can't remember her name—is a damned nuisance. Also that there's a village that hasn't got its gas-masks yet, but Robert thinks it will really have them before Christmas, with luck.

Not Mandeville Fitzwarren? I say, appalled.

H. H. thinks that was the name.

Can only reply that I hope the enemy won't find out about this before Christmas comes.

And what about Our Vicar and his wife and their evacuees?

They are, replies H. H., settling down very nicely. At least the evacuees are. Our Vicar's Wife thought to be over-working, and looks very pale. She always seems, adds H. H., to be here, there and everywhere. Parents of the evacuees all came down to see them the other day, and this necessitated fresh exertions from Our Vicar's Wife, but was said to have been successful on the whole.

Lady B. still has no patients to justify either Red Cross uniform or permanently-installed ambulance, and Miss Pankerton has organised a Keep Fit class in village every other evening, which is, says H. H. in tone of surprise, being well attended. He thinks that Aunt Blanche is one of the most regular members, together with Marigold and Margery. Do not inform him in return that Aunt Blanche has already told me by letter that Marigold, Margery and Doreen Fitzgerald attend classes but has made no mention of her own activities.

H. H. then enquires very civilly if the Ministry of Information keeps me very busy and I am obliged, in common honesty, to reply that it doesn't. Not, at all events, at present. H. H. says Ah, very non-committally, and adds that it's, in many ways, a very extraordinary war.

I agree that it is and we part, but not until I have recklessly suggested that he should come and meet one or two friends for a glass of sherry to-morrow, and he has accepted.

November 16th.—Ask Serena, across Canteen counter, whether she would like to come and help me entertain Humphrey Holloway over a glass of sherry to-morrow evening. She astonishingly replies that drink is the only thing—absolutely the only thing—at a time like this, and if I would like to bring him to her flat, where there's more room, she will ask one or two other people and we can provide the sherry between us. Then, I say—in rather stupefied accents—it will be a sherry-party.

Well, says Serena recklessly, why not? If we ask people by telephone at the last minute it won't be like a real sherry-party and anyway not many of them will come, because of the black-out. Besides, one of her Refugees is perfectly wonderful with sandwiches, as she once worked in a Legation, and it seems waste not to make the most of this talent.

I suggest that this had better be Serena's party, and that I should be invited as guest, with Humphrey Holloway in attendance, but Serena is firm: it must be a joint party and I am to invite everybody I can think of and tell them that she lives, fortunately, only one minute from a bus-stop. She particularly wishes to have Uncle A. and is certain—so am I—that the blackout will not deter him for a moment.

We can get everything ready to-morrow, when she will be off duty, says Serena—looking wild—and I must take the evening off from the Canteen.

Mrs. Peacock, who has been following the conversation rather wistfully, backs this up—and is instantly pressed by Serena to come too.

Mrs. Peacock would love it—she hasn't been to a party for years and years—at least, not since this war started, which feels to her like years and years. Would it be possible for her husband to come too? She doesn't like to trespass on Serena's kindness but she and the husband practically never set eyes on one another nowadays, what with A.R.P. and Red Cross and one thing and another, and she isn't absolutely certain of her leg now, and is glad of an arm—(very peculiar wording here, but meaning crystal-clear to an intelligent listener)—and finally, the husband has heard so much about Serena and myself that he is longing to meet us.

Cannot help feeling that much of this eloquence is really superfluous as Serena at once exclaims in enchanted accents that she is only too delighted to think of anybody bringing any man, as parties are usually nothing but a pack of women. Point out to her later this not at all happily expressed and she agrees, but maintains that it's true.

Later in the evening Serena again approaches me and mutters that, if we count Uncle A. and J. L., she thinks we shall run to half-a-dozen men at the very least.

Tell her in return that I don't see why I shouldn't ask my Literary Agent, and that if she doesn't mind the Weatherbys, Mr. W. will be another man.

Serena agrees to the Weatherbys with enthusiasm—although entirely, I feel, on the grounds of Agrippa's masculinity.

Remain on duty till 12.30, and have brief passage of arms with Red Cross nurse who complains that I have not given her two-pennyworth of marmalade. Explain that the amount of marmalade bestowed upon her in return for her twopence is decided by a higher authority than my own, then think this sounds ecclesiastical and slightly profane and add that I only mean the head cook, at which the Red Cross nurse looks astounded and simply reiterates that two-pennyworth of marmalade should reach to the rim of the jar, and not just below it. Can see by her expression that she means to contest the point from now until the Day of Judgment if necessary, and that I shall save much wear and tear by yielding at once. Do so, and feel that I am wholly lacking in strength of mind—but not the first time that this has been borne in on me, and cannot permit it to overshadow evening's activities.

Mock air-raid takes place at midnight, just as I am preparing to leave, and I decide to stay on and witness it, which I do, and am privileged to see Commandant racing up and down, smoking like a volcano, and directing all operations with great efficiency but, as usual, extreme high-handedness.

Stand at entrance to the underworld, with very heavy coat on over trousers and overall, and embark on abstract speculation as to women's fitness or otherwise for positions of authority and think how much better I myself should cope with it than the majority, combining common sense with civility, and have just got to rather impressive quotation—Suaviter in modo fortiter in re—when ambulance-man roars at me to Move out of the way or I shall get run over, and stretcher-bearing party at the same moment urges me to Keep that Gangway clear for Gawd's sake.

I go home shortly afterwards.

Gas-mask still missing, have only got temporary Registration Card, and find I have neglected to get new battery for electric torch.

Go to bed to the reflection that if Hitler should select to-night for long-awaited major attack on London by air, my chances of survival are not good. Decide that in the circumstances I shall feel justified in awaiting the end in comparative comfort of my bed.

November 17th.—Last night not selected by Hitler.

Serena appears at what seems to me like dawn and discusses proposed party for to-night with enthusiasm. She is going home to get some sleep and talk to Refugee sandwich-expert, and get out the sherry. Will I collect flowers, cigarettes and more sherry, and lend her all the ash-trays I have?

Agree to everything and point out that we must also expend some time in inviting guests, which Serena admits she has forgotten. Shall she, she asks madly, ring some of them up at once?

No, eight o'clock in the morning not at all a good time, and I propose to take her out for some breakfast instead. Lyons' coffee much better than mine. (Serena agrees to this more heartily than I think necessary.)

Proceed to Lyons and am a good deal struck by extraordinary colour of Serena's face, reminding me of nothing so much as the sea at Brighton. Implore her to spend the morning in sleep and leave all preparations to me, and once again suggest that she might employ her time to more purpose than in sitting about in the underworld, where she is wrecking her health and at present doing nothing particularly useful.

Serena only says that the war has got to be won somehow, by someone.

Can think of several answers but make none of them, as Serena, for twopence, would have hysterics in the Strand.

We separate after breakfast and I make a great number of telephone calls, on behalf of myself and Serena, inviting our friends and acquaintances to drink sherry—not a party—and eat sandwiches—Refugee, ex-Legation, a genius with sandwiches—in Hampstead—flat one minute's walk from bus-stop.

Humphrey Holloway accepts change of locale without a murmur, Rose declares that she will be delighted to come—she has, ha-ha-ha, nothing whatever to do and sees no prospect of getting anything.

The Weatherbys also thank me, thank Serena, whom they don't yet know, and will turn up if Mr. W. can possibly leave his office in time. He hopes to be able to—believes that he will—but after all, anything may happen, at any moment, anywhere—and if it does, I shall of course understand that he will be Tied. Absolutely Tied.

Reply that I do, and refuse to dwell on foolish and flippant fancy of Agrippa, fastened up by stout cords, dealing with national emergency from his office desk.

Ring up Uncle A's flat, answered by Mrs. Mouse, and request her to take a message to Uncle A. which I give her in full, and beg her to ascertain reply whilst I hold on. Within about two seconds Uncle A. has arrived at the telephone in person and embarked on long and sprightly conversation in the course of which he assures me that nothing could give him greater pleasure than to accept my young friend's very civil invitation, and I am to present his compliments and assure her that he will not fail to put in an appearance. Frail attempt to give Uncle A. precise instructions as to how he is to find the scene of the entertainment in the blackout proves a failure, as he simply tells me that he will be able to manage very well indeed between the public conveyance (bus from Kensington High Street?) and Shanks' mare.

He further adds recommendation to me to be very careful, as the streets nowadays are—no doubt properly—uncommonly dark, and says that he looks forward to meeting me and my young friend. Affairs in Germany, in Uncle A.'s opinion, are rapidly approaching a crisis and that unhappy fellow is in what is vulgarly known—(though surely only to Uncle A.?)—as The Mulligatawny. Express my gratification in words that I hope are suitable, and Uncle A. rings off.

Later in the morning case arrives—which I have great difficulty in opening, owing to absence of any tools except small hammer, and have to ask if caretaker's husband will very kindly Step Up—and proves to contain half-dozen bottles of sherry with affectionately-inscribed card from Uncle A.

Am deeply touched and ring up again, but Mrs. M. replies that Uncle A. has gone out for his walk and announced his intentions of lunching at the Club and playing Bridge afterwards.

Lady Blowfield, also invited, is grateful, but dejected as ever and feels quite unequal to Society at present. Assure her that this isn't Society, or anything in the least like it, but she remains unconvinced and only repeats that, what with one thing and another, neither she nor Archie can bear the thought of being anywhere but at home just now, waiting for whatever Fate may send. (Implication here that Fate is preparing something that will be unpleasant at best, and fatal at worst. Probably bombs.)

Assure Lady Blowfield untruthfully that I know exactly what she means, but am very sorry not to be seeing her and, naturally, Sir Archibald. How kind I am, returns Lady Blowfield—voice indicates that she is evidently nearly in tears—she can only hope that in happier times, if such are one day vouchsafed to this disordered world, we may achieve another meeting.

Tell her that I hope so too, and am rather shocked at hearing myself adopt most aggressively cheerful accents. Cannot suppose that these will really encourage Lady Blowfield to brighter frame of mind, but rather the contrary.

Final invitation is to Literary Agent, who much regrets that he is already engaged and would like to know how my new novel is getting on.

Well, it isn't very far on yet, I reply—as though another week would see it half-way to completion at least.

No? repeats Literary Agent, in tone of distressed surprise. Still, no doubt I realise that now—if ever—is the time when books are going to be read, and of course, whilst there are so few places of entertainment open, and people go out so little in the evenings, they will really be almost forced to take to books.

Am left wondering how many more people are going to dangle this encouraging reflection before me, and why they should suppose it to be a source of inspiration.

Review my wardrobe and can see nothing I should wish to wear for sherry-party. Decide that my Blue is less unbearable than my Black, but that both are out-of-date, unbecoming and in need of pressing, and that I shall wear no hat at all as none of mine are endurable and can never now afford to buy others. Ring at the bell interrupts very gloomy train of thought—Lady Blowfield outdone—and am startled at seeing familiar, but for an instant unrecognisable, figure at the door.

Turns out to be old school-friend Cissie Crabbe, now presenting martial, and yet at the same time rather bulging, figure in khaki uniform.

Cissie assures me that she couldn't pass the door without looking in on me, but that she hasn't a moment to call her own, and that she expects to be sent Behind the Line any time now. Can only congratulate her, and say that I wish I was making myself equally useful. Suggestion from Cissie that I can sign on for four years or the duration, if I like, is allowed to pass unheeded.

Enquire what she has done with her cats, which are the only items I can ever remember in her life, and Cissie says that one Dear old Pussy passed away just after Munich—as though he knew—another one has been evacuated to the Isle of Wight, which Cissie feels to be far safer than Norwich for her—and the third one, a very, very individual temperament indeed and could never have survived for even a day if separated from Cissie—had to be Put to Sleep.

Consecrate a moment of reverent silence to this announcement, and then Cissie says that she can't possibly stop, but she felt she had to get a glimpse of me, she never forgets dear old days in the Fifth Form and do I remember reciting "The Assyrian Came Down like a Wolf on the Fold" and breaking down in the third verse?

No, I don't, but feel it would be unsympathetic to say so crudely, and merely reply that we've all changed a good deal since then, with which contribution to original contemporary thought we exchange farewells.

Watch Cissie walking at unnaturally smart pace towards the Strand and decide once and for all that women, especially when over forty, do not look their best in uniform.

Remainder of the morning goes in the purchase of cigarettes—very expensive—and flowers—so cheap that I ask for explanation and shopman informs me gloomily that nobody is buying them at all and he would be glad to give away carnations, roses and gardenias. He does not, however, offer to do so, and I content myself with chrysanthemums and anemones, for which I pay.

Pause in front of alluring window of small dress-shop has perfectly fatal result, as I am completely carried away by navy-blue siren suit, with zip fastener—persuade myself that it is not only practical, warm and inexpensive—which it is—but indispensable as well, and go straight in and buy it for Serena's party.

Cannot regret this outburst when I put it on again before the glass in flat, and find the result becoming. Moreover, telephone call from Serena ensues later, for the express purpose of asking (a) How many men have I raked up? she's only got four, and five women not counting ourselves and the Refugees, and (b) What do I mean to Wear?

On hearing of siren-suit she shrieks and says she's got one too, and it was meant to surprise me, and we shall both look too marvellous.

Hope she may be right.

Do the best I can with my appearance, but am obliged to rely on final half-hour before Serena's mirror as I start early for Hampstead, heavily laden with flowers and cigarettes. Am half-way to Charing Cross before I remember Uncle A.'s case of sherry, when nothing is left for it but to take a taxi, go back and collect case, and start out all over again. Appearance by now much disordered but am delighted at having excellent excuse for taxi, and only regret that no such consideration will obtain on return journey.

Youngest and most elegant of Serena's Refugees opens the door to me—she is now disguised in charming pink check, frills and pleated apron, exactly like stage soubrette, and equally well made-up—we shake hands and she says Please!—takes all the packages from me, and when I thank her says Please! again—case of sherry is deposited by taxi-driver, to whom soubrette repeats Please, please! with very engaging smiles—and she then shows me into Serena's sitting-room, on the threshold of which we finally exchange Thank you and Please!

Serena is clad in claret-coloured siren-suit and delighted with herself—quite justifiably—and we compliment one another.

Strenuous half-hour follows, in the course of which Serena moves small bowl of anemones from window-sill to bookcase and back again not less than five several times.

Sherry is decanted—Serena has difficulties with corkscrew and begs soubrette to fetch her the scissors, but soubrette rightly declines, and takes corkscrew and all the bottles away, and presently returns two of them, uncorked, and says that her grandfather will open the others as required.

Is the oldest Refugee her grandfather, I enquire.

Serena—looks rather worried—says that they all seem to be related but she doesn't quite know how, anyway it's perfectly all right.

Accept this without hesitation and presently Serena's Refugees come in more or less en bloc and we all shake hands, Serena pours out sherry and we drink one another's healths, and glasses are then rushed away by the soubrette, washed and returned.

Serena puts on Six O'clock News—nothing sensational has transpired and we assure one another that, what with one thing and another, the Hitler régime is on the verge of a smash, but, says Serena in tones of preternatural wisdom, we must beware at all costs of wishful thinking. The German Reich will collapse, but not immediately, and anything may happen meanwhile. We have got to be prepared.

Assure her that I am prepared—except for loss of gas-mask, which has not yet been replaced—and that, so far as I know, the whole of the British Empire has been prepared for weeks and weeks, and hasn't had its morale in the least impaired by curious and unprecedented nature of Hitler's War of Nerves.

Serena, rather absent-mindedly, says Rule, Britannia, moves small pink crystal ash-tray from one table to another, and studies the effect with her head on one side.

Diversion is occasioned by the soubrette, who comes in bearing succession of plates with sandwiches, tiny little sausages on sticks, and exotic and unfamiliar looking odds-and-ends at which Serena and I simultaneously shriek with excitement.

Very shortly afterwards Serena's guests begin to arrive—J. L. amongst the earliest, and my opinion of him goes up when I see him in earnest discussion with grandfather-presumptive Refugee, I think about the Nature of Eternity, to which both have evidently given a good deal of thought.

Mrs. Peacock comes, as expected, with Mr. Peacock, who is pale and wears pince-nez and is immediately introduced by Serena to pretty A.R.P. worker, Muriel, with whom she thinks he may like to talk about air-raids. They at once begin to discuss Radio-stars Flotsam and Jetsam, and are evidently witty on the subject as both go into fits of laughter.

Party is now going with a swing and second glass of sherry causes me, as usual, to think myself really excellent conversationalist and my neighbours almost equally well worth hearing.

This agreeable frame of mind probably all to the good, as severe shock is inflicted by totally unexpected vision of old Mrs. Winter-Gammon, in rakish-looking toque and small fur cape over bottle-green wool.

Shall never believe that Serena really invited her.

She waves small claw at me from a distance and is presently to be seen perched on arm of large chair—toes unable to touch the floor—in animated conversation with three men at once.

Am much annoyed and only slightly restored when Rose arrives, looking very distinguished as usual, and informs me—quite pale with astonishment—that she thinks she has got a very interesting job, with a reasonable salary attached, at Children's Clinic in the North of England. Congratulate her warmly and introduce Mr. Weatherby, whom I very nearly—but not quite—refer to as Tall Agrippa. Hope this rapprochement will prove a success as I hear them shortly afterwards talking about Queen Wilhelmina of Holland, and both sound full of approval.

Uncle A.—more like distinguished diplomat than ever—arrives early and stays late, and assures me that he has little or no difficulty in finding his way about in black-out. He takes optimistic view of international situation, says that it will take probably years to establish satisfactory peace terms but he has no doubt that eventually—say in ten or fifteen years' time—we shall see a very different Europe—free, he trusts and believes, from bloodshed and tyranny. Am glad to see that Uncle A. has every intention of assisting personally at this world-wide regeneration and feel confident that his expectation of doing so will be realised.

He seems much taken with Serena, and they sit in a corner and embark on long tête-à-tête, while J. L. and I hand round Serena's refreshments. (J. L. inclined to be rather dejected, and when I refer to Plato—which I do solely with a view to encouraging him—he only says in reply that he has, of late, been reading Tolstoy. In the French translation, of course, he adds. Look him straight in the eye and answer, Of course; but he is evidently not taken in by this for one instant.)

Humphrey Holloway—original raison d'être for entire gathering—never turns up at all, but telephones to say that he is very sorry he can't manage it.

Am quite unable to feel particularly regretful about this—but find myself wishing several times that Robert could be here, or even Aunt Blanche.

Similar idea, to my great fury, has evidently come over Granny Bo-Peep, and she communicates it to me very shrilly above general noise, which has now reached riotous dimensions.

What a pity that dear, good man of mine isn't here! she cries—she knows very well that I should feel much happier if he were. She can read it in my face. (At this I instinctively do something with my face designed to make it look quite different, and have no doubt that I succeed—but probably at cost of appearance, as Mrs. W.-G. sympathetically enquires whether I bit on a tooth.)

And poor dear Blanche! What a lot of good it would do dear old Blanche to be taken out of herself, and made to meet people. Mrs. W.-G. doesn't want to say anything about herself—(since when?)—but friends have told her over and over again: Pussy—you are the party. Where you are, with your wonderful vitality and your ridiculous trick of making people laugh, and that absurd way you have of getting on with everybody—there is the party. How well she remembers her great friend, the late Bishop of London, saying those very words to her—and she at once told him he mustn't talk nonsense. She could say anything she liked to the Bishop—anything. He always declared that she was as good as a glass of champagne.

Think this Episcopal pronouncement quite unsuitable, and have serious thoughts of saying so—but Mrs. W.-G. gives me no time.

She has heard, she says, that dear Blanche's eldest brother is here and wishes to meet him. Is that him over there, talking to Serena?

It is, and can plainly see that if I do not perform introduction instantly, Mrs. W.-G. will do it for herself.

Can only conform to her wishes, and she supplants Serena at Uncle A.'s side.

Serena makes long, hissing speech in an undertone of which I can only make out that she thinks the party is going well, and is her face purple, she feels as though it were, and whatever happens I'm not to go.

Had had no thought of going.

Everybody talks about the war, and general opinion is that it can't last long—Rose goes so far as to say Over by February, but J. L. tells her that the whole thing is going to be held up till the spring begins—at which I murmur to myself: Air-raid by air-raid the spring begins, and hopes that nobody hears me—and then, says J. L., although short, it will be appalling. Hitler is a desperate man, and will launch a fearful attack in every direction at once. His main objective will be London.

J. L. states this so authoritatively that general impression prevails that he has received his information direct from Berlin, and must know what he is talking about.

Mrs. Weatherby alone rallies very slightly and points out that an air-raid over London would be followed instantly by reprisals, and she doubts whether the morale of the German people would survive it. She believes them to be on the brink of revolution already, and the Czechs and the Austrians are actually over the brink.

She adds that she wouldn't break up the party for anything—none of us are to stir—but she must go.

She does go, and we all do stir, and party is broken up—but can quite feel that it has been a success.

Serena, the Refugees and I, see everybody off into depths of blackness unlit by single gleam of light anywhere at all, and Serena says they'll be lucky if they don't all end up with broken legs, and if they do, heaven knows where they'll go as no patients allowed in any of the Hospitals.

One of her Refugees informs her, surprisingly, that the blackout is nothing—nothing at all. Vienna has always been as dark as this, every night, for years—darker, if anything.

Serena and I and the Refugees finish such sandwiches as are left, she presses cigarettes on them and in return they carry away all the plates and glasses and insist that they will wash them and put them away—please—and Serena and I are not to do anything but rest ourselves—please, please.

Thank you, thank you.

Please.

November 21st.—Am startled as never before on receiving notification that my services as a writer are required, and may even take me abroad.

Am unable to judge whether activities will permit of my continuing a diary but prefer to suppose that they will be of too important a nature.

Ask myself whether war, as term has hitherto been understood, can be going to begin at last. Reply, of sorts, supplied by Sir Auckland Geddes over the wireless.

Sir A. G. finds himself obliged to condemn the now general practice of running out into the street in order to view aircraft activities when engaged with the enemy overhead.

Can only hope that Hitler may come to hear of this remarkable reaction to his efforts, on the part of the British.

THE END