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June 9th.--Life takes on entirely new aspect, owing to astonishing and unprecedented success of minute and unpretentious literary effort, published last December, and--incredibly--written by myself. Reactions of family and friends to this unforeseen state of affairs most interesting and varied.

Dear Vicky and Robin more than appreciative although not allowed to read book, and compare me variously to Shakespeare, Dickens, author of the Dr. Dolittle books, and writer referred to by Vicky as Lambs' Tails.

Mademoiselle--who has read book--only says Ah, je m'en doutais bien! which makes me uneasy, although cannot exactly say why.

Robert says very little indeed, but sits with copy of book for several evenings, and turns over a page quite often. Eventually he shuts it and says Yes. I ask what he thinks of it, and after a long silence he says that It is Funny--but does not look amused. Later he refers to financial situation--as well he may, since it has been exceedingly grave for some time past--and we agree that this ought to Make a Difference.

Conversation is then diverted to merits or demerits of the Dole--about which Robert feels strongly, and I try to be intelligent but do not bring it off--and difficulty of obtaining satisfactory raspberries from old and inferior canes.

June 12th.--Letter from Angela arrives, expressing rather needless astonishment at recent literary success. Also note from Aunt Gertrude, who says that she has not read my book and does not as a rule care about modern fiction, as nothing is left to the imagination. Personally, am of opinion that this, in Aunt Gertrude's case, is fortunate--but do not, of course, write back and say so.

Cissie Crabbe, on postcard picturing San Francisco--but bearing Norwich postmark as usual--says that a friend has lent her copy of book and she is looking forward to reading it. Most unlike dear Rose, who unhesitatingly spends seven-and-sixpence on acquiring it, in spite of free copy presented to her by myself on day of publication.

Customary communication from Bank, drawing my attention to a state of affairs which is only too well known to me already, enables me to write back in quite unwonted strain of optimism, assuring them that large cheque from publishers is hourly expected. Follow this letter up by much less confidently worded epistle to gentleman who has recently become privileged to act as my Literary Agent, enquiring when I may expect money from publishers, and how much.

Cook sends in a message to say that there has been a misfortune with the chops, and shall she make do with a tin of sardines? Am obliged to agree to this, as only alternative is eggs, which will be required for breakfast. (Mem.: Enquire into nature of alleged misfortune in the morning.)

(Second, and more straightforward, Mem.: Try not to lie awake cold with apprehension at having to make this enquiry, but remind myself that it is well known that all servants despise mistresses who are afraid of them, and therefore it is better policy to be firm.)

June 14th.--Note curious and rather disturbing tendency of everybody in the neighbourhood to suspect me of Putting Them into a Book. Our Vicar's Wife particularly eloquent about this, and assures me that she recognised every single character in previous literary effort. She adds that she has never had time to write a book herself, but has often thought that she would like to do so. Little things, she says--one here, another there--quaint sayings such as she hears every day of her life as she pops round the parish--Cranford, she adds in conclusion. I say Yes indeed, being unable to think of anything else, and we part.

Later on, our Vicar tells me that he, likewise, has never had time to write a book, but that if he did so, and put down some of his personal experiences, no one would ever believe them to be true. Truth, says our Vicar, is stranger than fiction.

Very singular speculations thus given rise to, as to nature of incredible experiences undergone by our Vicar. Can he have been involved in long-ago crime passionnel, or taken part in a duel in distant student days when sent to acquire German at Heidelberg? Imagination, always so far in advance of reason, or even propriety, carries me to further lengths, and obliges me to go upstairs and count laundry in order to change current of ideas.

Vicky meets me on the stairs and says with no preliminary Please can she go to school. Am unable to say either Yes or No at this short notice, and merely look at her in silence. She adds a brief statement to the effect that Robin went to school when he was her age, and then continues on her way downstairs, singing something of which the words are inaudible, and the tune unrecognisable, but which I have inward conviction that I should think entirely unsuitable.

Am much exercised regarding question of school, and feel that as convinced feminist it is my duty to take seriously into consideration argument quoted above.

June 15th.--Cheque arrives from publishers, via Literary Agent, who says that further instalment will follow in December. Wildest hopes exceeded, and I write acknowledgment to Literary Agent in terms of hysterical gratification that I am subsequently obliged to modify, as being undignified. Robert and I spend pleasant evening discussing relative merits of Rolls-Royce, electric light, and journey to the South of Spain--this last suggestion not favoured by Robert--but eventually decide to pay bills and Do Something about the Mortgage. Robert handsomely adds that I had better spend some of the money on myself, and what about a pearl necklace? I say Yes, to show that I am touched by his thoughtfulness, but do not commit myself to pearl necklace. Should like to suggest very small flat in London, but violent and inexplicable inhibition intervenes, and find myself quite unable to utter the words. Go to bed with flat still unmentioned, but register cast-iron resolution, whilst brushing my hair, to make early appointment in London for new permanent wave.

Also think over question of school for Vicky very seriously, and find myself coming to at least three definite conclusions, all diametrically opposed to one another.

June 16th.--Singular letter from entire stranger enquires whether I am aware that the doors of every decent home will henceforward be shut to me? Publications such as mine, he says, are harmful to art and morality alike. Should like to have this elucidated further, but signature illegible, and address highly improbable, so nothing can be done. Have recourse to waste-paper basket in absence of fires, but afterwards feel that servants or children may decipher fragments, so remove them again and ignite small private bonfire, with great difficulty, on garden path.

(N.B. Marked difference between real life and fiction again exemplified here. Quite massive documents, in books, invariably catch fire on slightest provocation, and are instantly reduced to ashes.)

Question of school for Vicky recrudesces with immense violence, and Mademoiselle weeps on the sofa and says that she will neither eat nor drink until this is decided. I say that I think this resolution unreasonable, and suggest Horlick's Malted Milk, to which Mademoiselle replies Ah, ça, jamais! and we get no further. Vicky remains unmoved throughout, and spends much time with Cook and Helen Wills. I appeal to Robert, who eventually--after long silence--says, Do as I think best.

Write and put case before Rose, as being Vicky's godmother and person of impartial views. Extreme tension meanwhile prevails in the house, and Mademoiselle continues to refuse food. Cook says darkly that it's well known as foreigners have no powers of resistance, and go to pieces-like all in a moment. Mademoiselle does not, however, go to pieces, but instead writes phenomenal number of letters, all in purple ink, which runs all over the paper whenever she cries.

I walk to the village for no other purpose than to get out of the house, which now appears to me intolerable, and am asked at the Post Office if it's really true that Miss Vicky is to be sent away, she seems such a baby. Make evasive and unhappy reply, and buy stamps. Take the longest way home, and meet three people, one of whom asks compassionately how the foreign lady is. Both the other two content themselves with being sorry to hear that we're losing Miss Vicky.

Crawl indoors, enveloped in guilt, and am severely startled by seeing Vicky, whom I have been thinking of as a moribund exile, looking blooming, lying flat on her back in the hall eating peppermints. She says in a detached way that she needs a new sponge, and we separate without further conversation.

June 17th.--Mademoiselle shows signs of recovery, and drinks cup of tea at eleven o'clock, but relapses again later, and has une crise de nerfs. I suggest bed, and escort her there. Just as I think she can safely be left, swathed in little shawls and eiderdown quilt, she recalls me and enquires feebly if I think her health would stand life in a convent? Refuse--though I hope kindly--to discuss the question, and leave the room.

Second post brings letter from secretary of Literary Club, met once in London, informing me that I am now a member, and thoughtfully enclosing Banker's Order in order to facilitate payment of subscription, also information concerning International Congress to be held shortly in Brussels, and which she feels certain that I shall wish to attend. Decide that I would like to attend it, but am in some doubt as to whether Robert can be persuaded that my presence is essential to welfare of Literature. Should like to embark on immediate discussion, but all is overshadowed at lunch by devastating announcement that the Ram is not Working, and there is no water in the house. Lunch immediately assumes character of a passover, and Robert refuses cheese and departs with the gardener in order to bring Ram back to its duty--which they accomplish in about two and a half hours.

June 18th.--Dear Rose, always so definite, writes advocating school for Vicky. Co-educational, she says firmly, and Dalcroze Eurythmics. Robert, on being told this, says violently that no child of his shall be brought up amongst natives of any description. Am quite unable either to move him from this attitude, or to make him see that it is irrelevant to educational scheme at present under discussion.

Rose sends addresses of two schools, declares that she knows all about both, and invites me to go and stay with her in London and inspect them. I explain to Robert that this can be combined with new permanent wave, but Robert evidently not in a receptive mood, and remains immersed in The Times.

Post also brings officious communication from old Mrs. Blenkinsopp's Cousin Maud, saying that if I'm looking for a school for my brat, she could put in a word at dear old Roedean. Shall take no notice of this whatever.

June 20th.--Take bold step of writing to secretary of Literary Society to say that I will accompany its members to Brussels, and assist at Conference. Am so well aware that I shall regret this letter within an hour of writing it, that I send Vicky to village with instructions to post it instead of leaving it in box in hall as usual.

(Query: Does this denote extreme strength of mind or the reverse? Answer immediately presents itself, but see no reason for committing it to paper.)

Mademoiselle reappears in family circle, and has apparently decided that half-mourning is suitable to present crisis, as she wears black dress from which original green accessories have been removed, and fragments of mauve tulle wound round head and neck. Robert, meeting her on stairs, says kindly Mew, maln'zelle? which Mademoiselle receives with very long and involved reply, to which Robert merely returns Oh wee, and leaves her. Mademoiselle, later, tells Vicky, who repeats it to me, that it is not always education, nor even intelligence, that makes a gentleman.

Go through the linen in the afternoon, and find entirely unaccountable deficit of face-towels, but table-napkins, on the other hand, as numerous as they ever were. Blankets, as usual, require washing, but cannot be spared for the purpose, and new sheets are urgently required. Add this item to rapidly lengthening list for London. Just as I am going downstairs again, heavily speckled with fluff off blankets and reeking of camphor, enormous motor-car draws up in perfect silence at open front-door, and completely unknown woman--wearing bran-new hat about the size of a saucer with little plume over one eye--descends from it. I go forward with graceful cordiality and say, Come in, come in, which she does, and we sit and look at one another in drawing-room for ten minutes, and talk about wireless, the neighbourhood--which she evidently doesn't know--the situation in Germany, and old furniture. She turns out to be Mrs. Callington-Clay, recently come to live in house at least twenty miles away.

(Cannot imagine what can ever have induced me to call upon her, but can distinctly remember doing so, and immense relief at finding her out when I did.)

An old friend of mine, says Mrs. Callington Clay, is a neighbour of hers. Do I remember Pamela Pringle? Am obliged to say that I do not. Then perhaps I knew her as Pamela Templer-Tate? I say No again, and repress inclination to add rather tartly that I have never heard of her in my life. Mrs. C.-C. is undefeated and brazenly suggests Pamela Stevenson--whom I once more repudiate. Then, Mrs. C.-C. declares, I must recollect Pamela Warburton. Am by this time dazed, but admit that I did once, about twenty-three years ago, meet extraordinarily pretty girl called Pamela Warburton, at a picnic on the river. Very well then, says Mrs. C.-C., there I am! Pamela Warburton married man called Stevenson, ran away from him with man called Templer-Tate, but this, says Mrs. C.-C., a failure, and divorce ensued. She is now married to Pringle--very rich. Something in the City--Templer-Tate children live with them, but not Stevenson child. Beautiful old place near Somersetshire border, and Mrs. C.-C. hopes that I will call. Am still too much stunned at extraordinary activity of my contemporary to do more than say Yes, I will, and express feeble and quite insincere hope that she is as pretty as she used to be at eighteen--which is a manifest absurdity.

Finally, Mrs. C.-C. says that she enjoyed my book, and I say that that was very kind, and she asks if it takes long to write a book, and I reply Oh no, and then think it sounds conceited and wish that I had said Oh yes instead, and she departs.

Look at myself in the glass, and indulge in painful, and quite involuntary, exercise of the imagination, in which I rehearse probable description of myself that Mrs. C.-C. will give her husband on her return home. Emerge from this flight of fancy in wholly devitalised condition. Should be sorry indeed to connect this in any way with singular career of Pamela Pringle, as outlined this afternoon. At the same time, cannot deny that our paths in life have evidently diverged widely since distant occasion of river-picnic. Can conceive of no circumstances in which I should part from two husbands in succession, but am curiously depressed at unescapable conviction that my opportunities for doing so have been practically non-existent.

Write to Rose, and say that I will come and stay with her next week and inspect possible schools for Vicky, but cannot promise to patronise any of them.

June 21st.--Post agreeably diversified by most unusual preponderance of receipts over bills.

I pack for London, and explain to Robert that I am going on to Brussels for Literary Conference of international importance. He does not seem to take it in, and I explain all over again. Am sorry to realise that explanation gradually degenerates into something resembling rather a whining apology than a straightforward statement of rational intentions.

Mademoiselle appears soon after breakfast and says, coldly and elaborately, that she would Like to Speak to me when I can spare ten minutes. I say that I can spare them at once, but she replies No, no, it is not her intention to déranger la matinée, and she would prefer to wait, and in consequence I spend extremely unpleasant morning anticipating interview, and am quite unable to give my mind to anything at all.

(Mem.: This attitude positively childish, but cannot rid myself of overwhelming sensation of guilt.)

Interview with Mademoiselle takes place after lunch, and is fully as unpleasant as I anticipated.

(Mem.: Generalisation, so frequently heard, to the effect that things are never as bad as one expects them to be, once more proved untrue up to the hilt.)

Main conclusions to emerge from this highly distressing conference are: (a) That Mademoiselle is pas du tout susceptible, tout au contraire; (b) that she is profoundly blessée, and froissée, and agacée, and (c) that she could endure every humiliation and privation heaped upon her, if at least her supper might be brought up punctually.

This sudden introduction of entirely new element in the whole situation overcomes me completely, and we both weep.

I say, between sobs, that we both wish nothing except what is best for Vicky, and Mademoiselle replies with an offer to cut herself into a thousand pieces, and we agree to postpone further discussion for the moment.

The French not only extraordinarily exhausting to themselves and others in times of stress, but also possess very marked talent for transferring their own capacity for emotion to those with whom they are dealing.

Interesting speculation rises in my mind as to Robert's probable reactions to recent conversation with Mademoiselle, had he been present at it, but am too much exhausted to pursue subject further.

June 23rd.--Find myself in London with greatest possible relief. Rose takes one look at me, and then enquires if we have had a death in the house. I explain atmospheric conditions recently prevailing there, and she assures me that she quite understands, and the sooner I get my new permanent wave the better. Following this advice, I make early appointment.

We go to see Charles Laughton in Payment Deferred, and am confirmed in previous opinion that he is the most intelligent actor I have ever seen in my life. Rose says, On the English stage, in a cosmopolitan manner, and I say Yes, yes, very thoughtfully, and hope she does not realise that my acquaintance with any other stage is confined to performance of La Grande Duchesse at Boulogne, witnessed in childhood, and one sight of the Guitrys in Paris, about eleven years ago.

June 24th.--Rose takes me to visit school, which she says she is pretty certain I shall not like. Then why, I ask, go there? She replies that it is better to leave no stone unturned, and anyhow it will give me some idea of the kind of thing.

(On thinking over this reply, it seems wholly inadequate, but at the time am taken in by it.)

We go by train to large and airy red-brick establishment standing on a hill and surrounded by yellow-ochre gravel which I do not like. The Principal--colouring runs to puce and canary, and cannot avoid drawing inward parallel between her and the house--receives us in large and icy drawing-room, and is bright. I catch Rose's eye and perceive that she is unfavourably impressed, as I am myself, and that we both know that This will Never Do--nevertheless we are obliged to waste entire morning inspecting class-rooms--very light and cold--dormitories--hideously tidy, and red blankets like an institution--and gymnasium with dangerous-looking apparatus.

Children all look healthy, except one with a bandage on leg, which Principal dismisses lightly, when I enquire, as boils--and adds that child was born in India. (This event must have taken place at least ten years ago, and cannot possibly have any bearing on the case.)

Rose, behind Principal's back, forms long sentence silently with her lips, of which I do not understand one word, and then shakes her head violently. I shake mine in reply, and we are shown Chapel--chilly and unpleasant building--and Sick-room, where forlorn-looking child with inadequate little red cardigan on over school uniform is sitting in a depressed way over deadly-looking jigsaw puzzle of extreme antiquity.

The Principal says Hallo, darling, unconvincingly, and darling replies with a petrified stare, and we go out again.

I say Poor little thing! and Principal replies, more brightly than ever, that Our children love the sick-room, they have such a good time there. (This obviously untrue--and if not, reflects extremely poorly on degree of enjoyment prevalent out of the sick-room.)

Principal, who has referred to Vicky throughout as "your daughter" in highly impersonal manner, now presses on us terrific collection of documents, which she calls All Particulars, I say that I Will Write, and we return to station.

I tell Rose that really, if that is her idea of the kind of place I want--but she is apologetic, and says the next one will be quite different, and she does, really, know exactly what I want. I accept this statement, and we entertain ourselves on journey back to London by telling one another how much we disliked the Principal, her establishment, and everything connected with it.

I even go so far as to suggest writing to parents of bandaged child with boils, but as I do not know either her name or theirs, this goes no further.

(Am occasionally made uneasy at recollection of pious axiom dating back to early childhood, to the effect that every idle word spoken will one day have to be accounted for. If this is indeed fact, can foresee a thoroughly well-filled Eternity for a good many of us.)

June 25th.--Undergo permanent wave, with customary interludes of feeling that nothing on earth can be worth it, and eventual conviction that it was.

The hairdresser tells me that he has done five heads this week, all of which came up beautifully. He also assures me that I shall not be left alone whilst the heating is on, and adds gravely that no client ever is left alone at that stage--which has a sinister sound, and terrifies me. However, I emerge safely, and my head is also declared to have come up beautifully--which it has.

I go back to Rose's flat, and display waves, and am told that I look fifteen years younger--which leaves me wondering what on earth I could have looked like before, and how long I have been looking it.

Rose and I go shopping, and look in every shop to see if my recent publication is in window, which it never is except once. Rose suggests that whenever we do not see book, we ought to go in and ask for it, with expressions of astonishment, and I agree that certainly we ought. We leave it at that.

June 26th.--Inspect another school, and think well of Headmistress, also of delightful old house and grounds. Education, however, appears to be altogether given over to Handicrafts--green raffia mats and mauve paper boxes--and Self-expression--table manners of some of the pupils far from satisfactory. Decide, once more, that this does not meet requirements, and go away again.

Rose takes me to a party, and introduces me to several writers, one male and eight females. I wear new mauve frock, purchased that afternoon, and thanks to that and permanent wave, look nice, but must remember to have evening shoes re-covered, as worn gold brocade quite unsuitable.

Tall female novelist tells me that she is a friend of a friend of a friend of mine--which reminds me of popular song--and turns out to be referring to young gentleman known to me as Jahsper, once inflicted upon us by Miss Pankerton. Avoid tall female novelist with horror and dismay for the remainder of the evening.

June 28th.--Letter reaches me forwarded from home, written by contemporary of twenty-three years ago, then Pamela Warburton and now Pamela Pringle. She has heard so much of me from Mrs. Callington-Clay (who has only met me once herself and cannot possibly have anything whatever to say about me, except that I exist) and would so much like to meet me again. Do I remember picnic on the river in dear old days now so long ago? Much, writes Pamela Pringle--as well she may--has happened since then, and perhaps I have heard that after many troubles, she has at last found Peace, she trusts lasting. (Uncharitable reflection crosses my mind that P. P., judging from outline of her career given by Mrs. Callington-Clay, had better not count too much upon this, if by Peace she means matrimonial stability.)

Will I, pathetically adds Pamela, come and see her soon, for the sake of old times?

Write and reply that I will do so on my return--though less for the sake of old times than from lively curiosity, but naturally say nothing about this (extremely inferior) motive.

Go to large establishment which is having a Sale, in order to buy sheets. Find, to my horror, that I return having not only bought sheets, but blue lace tea-gown, six pads of writing-paper, ruled, small hair-slide, remnant of red brocade, and reversible black-and-white bath-mat, with slight flaw in it.

Cannot imagine how any of it happened.

Rose and I go to French film called Le Million, and are much amused. Coming out we meet Canadian, evidently old friend of Rose's, who asks us both to dine and go to theatre on following night, and says he will bring another man. We accept, I again congratulate myself on new and successful permanent wave.

Conscience compels me to hint to Rose that I have really come to London in order to look for schools, and she says Yes, yes, there is one more on her list that she is certain I shall like, and we will go there this afternoon.

I ask Rose for explanation of Canadian friend, and she replies that they met when she was travelling in Italy, which seems to me ridiculous. She adds further that he is very nice, and has a mother in Ontario. Am reminded of 0llendorf, but do not say so.

After lunch--cutlets excellent, and quite unlike very uninspiring dish bearing similar name which appears at frequent intervals at home--go by Green Line bus to Mickleham, near Leatherhead. Perfect school is discovered, Principal instantly enquires Vicky's name and refers to her by it afterwards, house, garden and children alike charming, no bandages to be seen anywhere, and Handicrafts evidently occupy only rational amount of attention. Favourite periodical Time and Tide lies on table, and Rose, at an early stage, nods at me with extreme vehemence behind Principal's back. I nod in return, but feel they will think better of me if I go away without committing myself. This I succeed in doing, and after short conversation concerning fees, which are not unreasonable, we take our departure. Rose enthusiastic, I say that I must consult Robert,--but this is mostly pour la forme, and we feel that Vicky's fate is decided.

June 29th.--Colossal success of evening's entertainment offered by Rose's Canadian. He brings with him delightful American friend, we dine at exotic and expensive restaurant, filled with literary and theatrical celebrities, and go to a revue. American friend says that he understands I have written a book, but does not seem to think any the worse of me for this, and later asks to be told name of book, which he writes down in a business-like way on programme, and puts into his pocket.

They take us to the Berkeley, where we remain until two o'clock in the morning, and are finally escorted to Rose's flat. Have I, asks the American, also got a flat? I say No, unfortunately I have not, and we all agree that this is a frightful state of things and should be remedied immediately. Quite earnest discussion ensues on the pavement, with taxi waiting at great expense.

At last we separate, and I tell Rose that this has been the most wonderful evening I have known for years, and she says that champagne often does that, and we go to our respective rooms.

Query presents itself here: Are the effects of alcohol always wholly to be regretted, or do they not sometimes serve useful purpose of promoting self-confidence? Answer, to-night, undoubtedly Yes, but am not prepared to make prediction as to to-morrow's reactions.

June 30th.--Realise with astonishment that Literary Conference in Brussels is practically due to begin, and that much has yet to be done with regard to packing, passport, taking of tickets and changing money. Much of this accomplished, with help of Rose, and I write long letter to Robert telling him where to telegraph in case anything happens to either of the children.

Decide to travel in grey-and-white check silk.

Ring up Secretary of Literary Club in order to find out further details, and am told by slightly reproachful subordinate that Conference started this morning, and everybody else crossed yesterday. Am stunned by this, but Rose, as usual, is bracing, and says What does it Matter, and on second thoughts, agree with her that it doesn't. We spend agreeable evening, mostly talking about ourselves, and Rose says Why go to Belgium at all? but at this I jib, and say that Plans are Plans, and anyhow, I want to see the country. We leave it at that.

July 2nd.--Cannot decide whether it is going to be hot or cold, but finally decide Hot, and put on grey-and-white check silk in which I think I look nice, with small black hat. Sky immediately clouds over and everything becomes chilly. Finish packing, weather now definitely cold, and am constrained to unpack blue coat and skirt, with Shetland jumper, and put it on in place of grey-and-white check, which I reluctantly deposit in suit-case, where it will get crushed. Black hat now becomes unsuitable, and I spend much time trying on remaining hats in wardrobe, to the total of three.

Suddenly discover that it is late--boat-train starts in an hour--and take taxi to station. Frightful conviction that I shall miss it causes me to sit on extreme edge of seat in taxi, leaning well forward, in extraordinarily uncomfortable position that subsequently leads to acute muscular discomfort. However, either this, or other cause unspecified, leads to Victoria being reached with rather more than twenty minutes to spare.

A porter finds me a seat, and I ask if there will be food on the train. He disquietingly replies: Food, if at all, will be on the boat. Decide to get some fruit, and find my way to immense glass emporium, where I am confronted by English Peaches, One shilling apiece, Strawberries in baskets, and inferior peaches, of unspecified nationality, at tenpence. Am horrified, in the midst of all this, to hear myself asking for two bananas in a bag, please. Should not be in the least surprised if the man refused to supply them. He does not, however, do so, and I return to the train, bananas and all.

Embarkation safely accomplished. Crossing more successful than usual, and only once have recourse to old remedy of reciting An Austrian army awfully arrayed.

Reach Brussels, and am at Hotel Britannia by eight o'clock. All is red plush, irrelevant gilt mouldings, and Literary Club members. I look at them, and they at me, with horror and distrust. (Query: Is not this reaction peculiar to the English, and does patriotism forbid conviction that it is by no means to be admired? Americans totally different, and, am inclined to think, much nicer in consequence.)

Find myself at last face to face with dear old friend, Emma Hay, author of many successful plays. Dear old friend is wearing emerald green, which would be trying to almost anyone, and astonishing quantity of rings, brooches and necklaces. She says, Fancy seeing me here! and have I broken away at last? I say, No, certainly not, and suggest dinner. Am introduced by Emma to any number of literary lights, most of whom seem to be delegates from the Balkans.

(N.B. Should be very, very sorry if suddenly called upon to give details as to situation, and component parts, of the Balkans.)

Perceive, without surprise, that the Balkans are as ignorant of my claims to distinction as I of theirs, and we exchange amiable conversation about Belgium,--King Albert popular, Queen Elizabeth shingled, and dresses well--and ask one another if we know Mr. Galsworthy, which none of us do.

July 3rd.--Literary Conference takes place in the morning. The Balkans very eloquent. They speak in French, and are translated by inferior interpreters into English. Am sorry to find attention wandering on several occasions to entirely unrelated topics, such as Companionate Marriage, absence of radiators in Church at home, and difficulty in procuring ice. Make notes on back of visiting-card, in order to try and feel presence at Conference in any way justified. Find these again later, and discover that they refer to purchase of picture-postcards for Robin and Vicky, memorandum that blue evening dress requires a stitch before it can be worn again, and necessity for finding out whereabouts of Messrs. Thos. Cook & Son, in case I run short of money--which I am almost certain to do.

Emma introduces Italian delegate, who bows and kisses my hand. Feel certain that Robert would not care for this Continental custom. Conference continues. I sit next to (moderately) celebrated poet, who pays no attention to me, or anybody else. Dear Emma, always so energetic, takes advantage of break in Conference to introduce more Balkans, both to me and to adjacent poet. The latter remains torpid throughout, and elderly Balkan, who has mistakenly endeavoured to rouse him to conversation, retires with embittered ejaculation: Ne vous réveillez pas, monsieur.

Close of Conference, and general conversation, Emma performing many introductions, including me and Italian delegate once more. Italian delegate remains apparently unaware that he has ever set eyes on me before, and can only conclude that appearance and personality alike have failed to make slightest impression.

Find myself wondering why I came to Belgium at all. Should like to feel that it was in the interests of literature, but am doubtful, and entirely disinclined to probe further. Feminine human nature sometimes very discouraging subject for speculation.

Afternoon devoted to sight-seeing. We visit admirable Town Hall, are received by Mayor, who makes speech, first in English, and then all over again in French, other speeches are made in return, and energetic Belgian gentleman takes us all over Brussels on foot. Find myself sympathising with small and heated delegate,--country unknown, but accent very odd--who says to me dejectedly, as we pace the cobbles: C'est un tour de la Belgique à pied, hein?

July 5th.--Extreme exhaustion overwhelms me, consequent on excessive sight-seeing. I ask Emma if she would think it unsporting if I evaded charabanc expedition to Malines this afternoon, and she looks pained and astonished and says Shall she be quite honest? I lack courage to say how much I should prefer her not to be honest at all, and Emma assures me that it is my duty, in the interests of literature and internationalism alike, to go to Malines. She adds that there will be tea in the Town Hall--which I know means more speeches--and that afterwards we shall hear a Carillon Concert.

Shall she, Emma adds, wear her green velvet, which will be too hot, or her Rumanian peasant costume, which is too tight, but may please our Rumanian delegates? I advocate sacrificing our Rumanian delegates without hesitation.

Large motor-bus is a great relief after so much walking, and I take my seat beside an unknown French lady with golden hair and a bust, but am beckoned away by Emma, who explains in agitation that the French lady has come to Belgium entirely in order to see something of a Polish friend, because otherwise she never gets away from her husband. Am conscious of being distinctly shocked by this, but do not say so in case Emma should think me provincial. Yield my place to the Polish friend, who seems to me to be in need of soap and water and a shave, but perhaps this mere insular prejudice, and go and sit next to an American young gentleman, who remains indifferent to my presence.

(Query: Does this complaisancy on my part amount to countenancing very singular relation which obviously obtains between my fellow-littérateurs? If so, have not the moral courage to do anything about it.)

Nothing of moment passes during drive, except that the French lady takes off her hat and lays her head on her neighbour's shoulder, and that I hear Belgian delegate enquiring of extremely young and pretty Englishwoman: What is the English for Autobus, to which she naïvely returns that: It is Charabanc.

Arrival at Town Hall, reception, speeches and tea take place exactly as anticipated, and we proceed in groups, and on foot, to the Carillon Concert. American neighbour deserts me--have felt certain all along that he always meant to do so at earliest possible opportunity--and I accommodate my pace to that of extremely elderly Belgian, who says that it is certainly not for us to emulate les jeunes on a hot day like this, and do I realise that for nous autres there is always danger of an apoplexy? Make no reply to this whatever, but inwardly indulge in cynical reflections about extremely poor reward afforded in this life to attempted acts of good nature.

July 6th.--Final Conference in the morning, at which much of importance is doubtless settled, but cannot follow owing to reading letters from home, which have just arrived. Robert says that he hopes I am enjoying myself, and we have had one and a quarter inches of rain since Thursday, and bill for roof-repairs has come in and is even more than he expected. Robin and Vicky write briefly, but affectionately, information in each case being mainly concerned with food, and--in Robin's case--progress of Stamp Collection, which now, he says, must be worth 10d. or 11d. altogether.

Inspection of Antwerp Harbour by motor-launch takes place in the afternoon, and the majority of us sit with our backs to the rails and look at one another. Conversation in my immediate vicinity concerns President Hoover, the novels of J. B. Priestley and Lady Chatterley's Lover, which everyone except myself seems to have read and admired. I ask unknown lady on my right if it can be got from the Times Book Club, and she says No, only in Paris, and advises me to go there before I return home. Cannot, however, feel that grave additional expense thus incurred would be justified, and in any case could not possibly explain détour satisfactorily to Robert.

Disembark from motor-launch chilled and exhausted, and with conviction that my face has turned pale-green. Inspection in pocket-mirror more than confirms this intuition. Just as I am powdering with energy, rather than success, Emma--vitality evidently unimpaired either by society of fellow-writers or by motor-launch approaches with Italian delegate, and again introduces us.

All is brought to a close by State Banquet this evening, for which everyone--rather strangely--has to pay quite a large number of francs. Incredible number of speeches delivered: ingenious system prevails by which bulb of crimson light is flashed on as soon as any speech has exceeded two and a half minutes. Unfortunately this has no effect whatever on many of our speakers, who disregard it completely. Dear Emma not amongst these, and makes admirably concise remarks which are met with much applause. I sit next to unknown Dutchman--who asks if I prefer to speak English, French, Dutch or German--and very small and dusty Oriental, who complains of the heat.

We rise at eleven o'clock, and dancing is suggested. Just as I move quietly away in search of cloak, taxi and bed, Emma appears and says This will never do, and I must come and dance. I refuse weakly, and she says Why not? to which the only rational reply would be that I have splitting headache, and am not interested in my colleagues nor they in me. Do not, needless to say, indulge in any such candour, and result is that I am thrust by Emma upon American young gentleman for a foxtrot. I say that I dance very badly, and he says that no one can ever keep step with him. Both statements turn out to be perfectly true, and I go back to Hotel dejected, and remind myself that It is Useless to struggle against Middle-age.

July 8th.--Embark for England, not without thankfulness. Am surprised to discover that I have a sore throat, undoubted result of persistent endeavour to out-screech fellow-members of Literary Club for about a week on end.

Emma travels with me, and says that she is camping in Wales all next month, and will I join her? Nothing but a tent, and she lives on bananas and milk chocolate. Associations with the last words lead me to reply absently that the children would like it, at which Emma seems hurt and enquires whether I intend to spend my life between the nursery and the kitchen? The only possible answer to this is that I like it, and discussion becomes animated and rather painful. Emma, on board, avoids me, and I am thrown into society of insufferable male novelist, who is interested in Sex. He has an immense amount to say about it, and we sit on deck for what seems like hours and hours. He says at last that he hopes he is not boring me, and I hear myself, to my incredulous horror, saying pleasantly No, not at all--at which he naturally goes on.

Become gradually paralysed, and unable to think of anything in the world except how I can get away, but nothing presents itself. At last I mutter something about being cold--which I am--and he at once suggests walking round and round the deck, while he tells me about extraordinarily distressing marriage customs prevalent amongst obscure tribes of another hemisphere. Find myself wondering feebly whether, if I suddenly jumped overboard, he would stop talking. Am almost on the verge of trying this experiment when Emma surges up out of deck-chair and enveloping rugs, and says Oh there I am, she has been looking for me everywhere.

Sink down beside her with profound gratitude, and male novelist departs, assuring me that he will remember to send me list of books on return to London. Can remember nothing whatever of any books discussed between us, but am absolutely convinced that they will be quite unsuitable for inclusion in respectable book-shelves.

Emma is kind, says that she didn't mean a single word she said--(have quite forgotten by this time what she did say, but do not tell her so)--and assures me that what I need is a good night's rest. She then tells me all about a new Trilogy that she is planning to write and which ought to be published by 1938, and also about her views on Bertrand Russell, the works of Stravinsky, and Relativity. At one o'clock in the morning we seek our cabin, last thing I hear being Emma's positive assurance that I need not be afraid of America's influence on the English stage...

July 9th.--London regained, though not before I have endured further spate of conversation from several lights of literature.

(Query: Does not very intimate connection exist between literary ability and quite inordinate powers of talk? And if so, is it not the duty of public-spirited persons to make this clear, once for all? Further Query: How?)

Part from everybody with immeasurable relief, and wholly disingenuous expressions of regret.

Find Rose in great excitement, saying that she has found the Very Thing. I reply firmly If Bertrand Russell for Vicky, then No, to which Rose rejoins that she does not know what I am talking about, but she has found me a flat. Logical and straightforward reply to this would be that I am not looking for a flat, and cannot afford one. This, however, eludes me altogether, and I accompany Rose, via bus No. 19, to Doughty Street, where Rose informs me that Charles Dickens once lived. She adds impressively that she thinks, but is not sure, that Someone-or-other was born at a house in Theobald's Road, close by. Brisk discussion as to relative merits of pronouncing this as "Theobald" or "Tibbald" brings us to the door of the flat, where ground-floor tenant hands us keys. Entirely admirable first-floor flat is revealed, unfurnished, and including a bedroom, sitting-room, bathroom and kitchen. To the last, I say that I would rather go out for all my meals than do any cooking at all. Then, Rose replies with presence of mind, use it as a box-room. We make intelligent notes of questions to be referred to agents--Rose scores highest for sound common-sense enquiries as to Power being Laid On and Rates included in Rent--and find soon afterwards that I am committed to a three-year tenancy, with power to sub-let, and a choice of wall-papers, cost not to exceed two shillings a yard. From September quarter, says the agent, and suggests a deposit of say two pounds, which Rose and I muster with great difficulty, mostly in florins.

Go away feeling completely dazed, and quite unable to imagine how I shall explain any of it to Robert. This feeling recrudesces violently in the middle of the night, and in fact keeps me awake for nearly an hour, and is coupled with extremely agitating medley of quite unanswerable questions, such as What I am to Do about a Telephone, and who will look after the flat when I am not in it, and what about having the windows cleaned? After this painful interlude I go to sleep again, and eventually wake up calm, and only slightly apprehensive. This, however, may be the result of mental exhaustion.

July 11th.--Return home, and am greeted with customary accumulation of unexpected happenings, such as mysterious stain on ceiling of spare bedroom, enormous bruise received by Vicky in unspecified activity connected with gardener's bicycle, and letters which ought to have been answered days ago and were never forwarded. Am struck by the fact that tea is very nasty, with inferior bought cake bearing mauve decorations, and no jam. Realisation that I shall have to speak to cook about this in the morning shatters me completely, and by the time I go to bed, Rose, London and Doughty Street have receded into practically forgotten past.

Robert comes to bed soon after one--am perfectly aware that he has been asleep downstairs--and I begin to tell him about the flat. He says that it is very late, and that he supposes the washerwoman puts his pyjamas through the mangle, as the buttons are always broken. I brush this aside and revert to the flat, but without success. I then ask in desperation if Robert would like to hear about Vicky's school; he replies Not now, and we subside into silence.

July 12th.--Cook gives notice.

July 14th.--Pamela Warburton--now Pamela Pringle--and I meet once again, since I take the trouble to motor into the next county in response to an invitation to tea.

Enormous house, with enormous gardens--which I trust not to be asked to inspect--and am shown into room with blue ceiling and quantities of little dogs, all barking. Pamela surges up in a pair of blue satin pyjamas and an immense cigarette-holder, and astonishes me by looking extremely young and handsome. Am particularly struck by becoming effect of brilliant coral lip-stick, and insane thoughts flit through my mind of appearing in Church next Sunday similarly adorned, and watching the effect upon our Vicar. This flight of fancy routed by Pamela's greetings, and introduction to what seems like a small regiment of men, oldest and baldest of whom turns out to be Pringle. Pamela then tells them that she and I were at school together--which is entirely untrue--and that I haven't changed in the least--which I should like to believe, and can't--and offers me a cocktail, which I recklessly accept in order to show how modern I am. Do not, however, enjoy it in the least, and cannot see that it increases my conversational powers. Am moreover thrown on my beam-ends at the very start by unknown young man who asks if I am not the Colonel's wife? Repudiate this on the spot with startled negative, and then wonder if I have not laid foundations of a scandal, and try to put it right by feeble addition to the effect that I do not even know the Colonel, and am married to somebody quite different. Unknown young man looks incredulous, and at once begins to talk about interior decoration, the Spanish Royal Family, and modern lighting. I respond faintly, and try to remember if Pamela P. always had auburn hair. Should moreover very much like to know how she has collected her men, and totally eliminated customary accompanying wives.

Later on, have an opportunity of enquiring into these phenomena, as P. P. takes me to see children. Do not like to ask much about them, for fear of becoming involved in very, very intricate questions concerning P.'s matrimonial extravagances.

Nurseries are entirely decorated in white, and furnished exactly like illustrated articles in Good Housekeeping, even to coloured frieze all round the walls. Express admiration, but am inwardly depressed, at contrast with extraordinarily inferior school-room at home. Hear myself agreeing quite firmly with P. P. that it is most important to Train the Eye from the very beginning--and try not to remember large screen covered with scraps from illustrated papers; extremely hideous Brussels carpet descended from dear Grandmamma, and still more hideous oil-painting of quite unidentified peasant carrying improbable-looking jar--all of which form habitual surroundings of Robin and Vicky.

P. P. calls children, and they appear, looking, if possible, even more expensive and hygienic than their nursery. Should be sorry to think that I pounce with satisfaction on the fact that all of them wear spectacles, and one a plate, but cannot quite escape suspicion that this is so. All have dark hair, perfectly straight, and am more doubtful than ever about P.'s auburn waves.

We all exchange handshakes, I say that I have a little boy and a little girl at home--which information children rightly receive with brassy indifference--Pamela shows me adjoining suite of night-nurseries, tiled bathroom and kitchen, and says how handy it is to have a nursery wing quite apart from the rest of the house, and I reply Yes indeed, as if I had always found it so, and say good-bye to the little Spectacles with relief.

Pamela, on the way downstairs, is gushing, and hopes that she is going to see a great deal of me, now that we are neighbours. Forty-one miles does not, in my opinion, constitute being neighbours, but I make appropriate response, and Pamela says that some day we must have a long, long talk. Cannot help hoping this means that she is going to tell me the story of Stevenson, Templer-Tate and Co.

(N.B. Singular and regrettable fact that I should not care twopence about the confidences of P. P. except for the fact that they are obviously bound to contain references to scandalous and deplorable occurrences, which would surely be better left in oblivion?)

Drive forty-one miles home again, thinking about a new cook--practically no ray of hope anywhere on horizon here--decision about Vicky's school, Mademoiselle's probable reactions to final announcement on the point, and problem in regard to furnishing of Doughty Street flat.

July 17th.--Am obliged to take high line with Robert and compel him to listen to me whilst I tell him about the flat. He eventually gives me his attention, and I pour out torrents of eloquence, which grow more and more feeble as I perceive their effect upon Robert. Finally he says, kindly but gloomily, that he does not know what can have possessed me--neither do I, by this time--but that he supposes I had to do something, and there is a good deal too much furniture here, so some of it can go to Doughty Street.

At this I revive, and we go into furniture in detail, and eventually discover that the only things we can possibly do without are large green glass vase from drawing-room, small maple-wood table with one leg missing, framed engraving of the Prince Consort from bathroom landing, and strip of carpet believed--without certainty--to be put away in attic. This necessitates complete readjustment of furniture question on entirely new basis. I become excited, and Robert says Well, it's my own money, after all, and Why not leave it alone for the present, and we can talk about it again later? Am obliged to conform to this last suggestion, as he follows it up by immediately leaving the room.

Write several letters to Registry Offices, and put advertisement in local Gazette, regarding cook. Advertisement takes much time and thought, owing to feeling that it is better to be honest and let them know the worst at once, and equally strong feeling that situation must be made to sound as attractive as possible. Finally put in "good outings" and leave out "oil lamps only" but revert to candour with "quiet country place" and "four in family".

Am struck, not for the first time, with absolutely unprecedented display of talent and industry shown by departing cook, who sends up hitherto undreamed-of triumphs of cookery, evidently determined to show us what we are losing.

July 19th.--Receive two replies to Gazette advertisement, one from illiterate person who hopes we do not want dinner in the night--(Query: Why should we?)--and another in superior, but unpleasant, handwriting demanding kitchen-maid, colossal wages and improbable concessions as to times off. Reason tells me to leave both unanswered; nevertheless find myself sending long and detailed replies and even--in case of superior scribe--suggesting interview.

Question of Vicky's school recrudesces, demanding and receiving definite decisions. Am confronted with the horrid necessity of breaking this to Mademoiselle. Decide to do so immediately after breakfast, but find myself inventing urgent errands in quite other parts of the house, which occupy me until Mademoiselle safely started for walk with Vicky.

(Query: Does not moral cowardice often lead to very marked degree of self-deception? Answer: Most undoubtedly yes.)

Decide to speak to Mademoiselle after lunch. At lunch, however, she seems depressed, and says that the weather lui Porte sur les nerfs, and I feel better perhaps leave it till after tea. Cannot decide if this is true consideration, or merely further cowardice. Weather gets steadily worse as day goes on, and is probably going to porter sur les nerfs of Mademoiselle worse than ever, but register cast-iron resolution not to let this interfere with speaking to her after Vicky has gone to bed.

Robin's Headmaster's wife writes that boys are all being sent home a week earlier, owing to case of jaundice, which is--she adds--not catching. Can see neither sense nor logic in this, but am delighted at having Robin home almost at once. This satisfaction, most regrettably, quite unshared by Robert. Vicky, however, makes up for it by noisy and prolonged display of enthusiasm. Mademoiselle, as usual, is touched by this, exclaims Ah, quel bon petit coeur! and reduces me once more to despair at thought of the blow in store for her. Find myself desperately delaying Vicky's bed-time, in prolonging game of Ludo to quite inordinate lengths.

Just as good-night is being said by Vicky, I am informed that a lady is the back door, and would like to speak to me, please. The lady turns out to be in charge of battered perambulator, filled with apparently hundreds of green cardboard boxes, all--she alleges--containing garments knitted by herself. She offers to display them; I say No, thank you, not to-day, and she immediately does so. They all strike me as frightful in the extreme.

Painful monologue ensues, which includes statements about husband having been a Colonel in the Army, former visits to Court, and staff of ten indoor servants. Am entirely unable to believe any of it, but do not like to say so, or even to interrupt so much fluency. Much relieved when Robert appears, and gets rid of perambulator, boxes and all, apparently by power of the human eye alone, in something under three minutes.

(He admits, later, to having parted with half a crown at back gate, but this I think touching, and much to his credit.)

Robert, after dinner, is unwontedly talkative--about hay--and do not like to discourage him, so bed-time is reached with Mademoiselle still unaware of impending doom.

July 21st.--Interview two cooks, results wholly unfavourable. Return home in deep depression, and Mademoiselle offers to make me a tisane--but substitutes tea at my urgent request--and shows so much kindness that I once more postpone painful task of enlightening her as to immediate future.

July 22nd.--Return of Robin, who is facetious about jaundice case--supposed to be a friend of his--and looks well. He eats enormous tea and complains of starvation at school. Mademoiselle says Le pauvre gosse! and produces packet of Menier chocolate, which Robin accepts with gratitude--but am only too well aware that this alliance is of highly ephemeral character.

I tell Robin about Doughty Street flat and he is most interested and sympathetic, and offers to make me a box for shoes, or a hanging bookshelf, whichever I prefer. We then adjourn to garden and all play cricket, Mademoiselle's plea for une balle de caoutchouc being, rightly, ignored by all. Robin kindly allows me to keep wicket, as being post which I regard as least dangerous, and Vicky is left to bowl, which she does very slowly, and with many wides. Helen Wills puts in customary appearance, but abandons us on receiving cricket-ball on front paws. After what feels like several hours of this, Robert appears, and game at once takes on entirely different--and much brisker--aspect. Mademoiselle immediately says firmly Moi, je ne joue plus and walks indoors. Cannot feel that this is altogether a sporting spirit, but have private inner conviction that nothing but moral cowardice prevents my following her example. However, I remain at my post--analogy with Casabianca indicated here--and go so far as to stop a couple of balls and miss one or two catches, after which I am told to bat, and succeed in scoring two before Robin bowls me.

Cricket decidedly not my game, but this reflection closely followed by unavoidable enquiry: What is? Answer comes there none.

July 23rd.--Take the bull by the horns, although belatedly, and seek Mademoiselle at two o'clock in the afternoon--Vicky resting, and Robin reading Sherlock Holmes on front stairs, which he prefers to more orthodox sitting-rooms--May I, say I feebly, sit down for a moment?

Mademoiselle at once advances her own armchair and says Ah, ça me fait du bien de recevoir madame dans mon petit domaine--which makes me feel worse than ever.

Extremely painful half-hour follows. We go over ground that we have traversed many times before, and reach conclusions only to unreach them again, and the whole ends, as usual, in floods of tears and mutual professions of esteem. Emerge from it all with only two solid facts to hold on to--that Mademoiselle is to return to her native land at an early date, and that Vicky goes to school at Mickleham in September.

(N.B. When announcing this to Vicky, must put it to her in such a way: that she is neither indecently joyful at emancipation, nor stonily indifferent to Mademoiselle's departure. Can foresee difficult situation arising here, and say so to Robert, who tells me not to cross my bridges before I get to them--which I consider aggravating.)

Spend a great deal of time writing to Principal of Vicky's school, to dentist for appointments, and to Army and Navy Stores for groceries. Am quite unable to say why this should leave me entirely exhausted in mind and body--but it does.

July 25th.--Go to Exeter in order to interview yet another cook, and spend exactly two hours and twenty minute in Registry Office waiting for her to turn up--which she never does. At intervals, I ask offenive-looking woman in orange béret, who sits at desk, What she thinks can have Happened, and she replies that she couldn't say, she's sure, and such a thing has never happened in the office before, never--which makes me feel that it is all my fault.

Harassed-looking lady in transparent pink mackintosh trails in, and asks for a cook-general, but is curtly dismissed by orange béret with assurance that cooks-general for the country are not to be found. If they were, adds the orange béret cynically, her fortune would have been made long ago. The pink mackintosh, like Queen Victoria, is not amused, and goes out again. She is succeeded by a long interval, during which the orange béret leaves the room and returns with a cup of tea, and I look--for the fourteenth time--at only available literature, which consists of ridiculous little periodical called "Do the Dead Speak?" and disembowelled copy of the Sphere for February 1929.

Orange béret drinks tea, and has long and entirely mysterious conversation conducted in whispers with client who looks like a charwoman.

Paralysis gradually invades me, and feel that I shall never move again--but eventually, of course, do so, and find that I have very nearly missed bus home again. Evolve scheme for selling house and going to live in hotel, preferably in South of France, and thus disposing for ever of servant question. Am aware that this is not wholly practicable idea, and would almost certainly lead to very serious trouble with Robert.

(Query: Is not theory mistaken, which attributes idle and profitless day-dreaming to youth? Should be much more inclined to add it to many other unsuitable and unprofitable weaknesses of middle-age.)

Spend the evening with children, who are extraordinarily energetic, and seem surprised when I refuse invitation to play tip-and-run, but agree, very agreeably, to sit still instead and listen to Vice Versa for third time of reading.

July 26th.--Spirited discussion at breakfast concerning annual problem of a summer holiday. I hold out for Brittany, and produce little leaflet obtained from Exeter Travel Agency, recklessly promising unlimited sunshine, bathing and extreme cheapness of living. Am supported by Robin--who adds a stipulation that he is not to be asked to eat frogs. Mademoiselle groans, and says that the crossing will assuredly be fatal to us all and this year is one notable for naufrages. At this stage Vicky confuses the issue by urging travel by air, and further assures us that in France all the little boys have their hair cut exactly like convicts. Mademoiselle becomes froissée, and says Ah non, par exemple, je ne m' offense pas, moi, mais ça tout de même--and makes a long speech, the outcome of which is that Vicky has neither heart nor common sense, at which Vicky howls, and Robert says My God and cuts ham.

Discussion then starts again on a fresh basis, with Vicky outside the door where she can be heard shrieking at intervals--but this mechanical, rather than indicative of serious distress--and Mademoiselle showing a tendency to fold her lips tightly and repeat that nobody is to pay any attention to her wishes about anything whatever.

I begin all over again about Brittany, heavily backed by Robin, who says It is well known that all foreigners live on snails. (At this I look apprehensively at Mademoiselle, but fortunately she has not heard.)

Robert's sole contribution to discussion is that England is quite good enough for him.

(Could easily remind Robert of many occasions, connected with Labour Government activities in particular, when England has been far from good enough for him--but refrain.)

Would it not, I urge, be an excellent plan to shut up the house for a month, and have thorough change, beneficial to mind and body alike? (Should also, in this way, gain additional time in which to install new cook, but do not put forward this rather prosaic consideration.)

Just as I think my eloquence is making headway, Robert pushes back his chair and says Well, all this is great waste of time, and he wants to get the calf off to market--which he proceeds to do.

Mademoiselle then begs for ten minutes' Serious Conversation--which I accord with outward calm and inward trepidation. The upshot of the ten minutes--which expand to seventy by the time we have done with them--is that the entire situation is more than Mademoiselle's nerves can endure, and unless she has a complete change of environment immediately, she will succomber.

I agree that this must at all costs be avoided, and beg her to make whatever arrangements suit her best. Mademoiselle weeps, and is still weeping when Gladys comes in to clear the breakfast things. (Cannot refrain from gloomy wonder as to nature of comments that this prolonged tête-à-tête will give rise to in kitchen.)

Entire morning seems to pass in these painful activities, without any definite result, except that Mademoiselle does not appear at lunch, and both children behave extraordinarily badly.

(Mem.: A mother's influence, if any, almost always entirely disastrous. Children invariably far worse under maternal supervision than any other.)

Resume Brittany theme with Robert once more in the evening, and suggest--stimulated by unsuccessful lunch this morning--that a Holiday Tutor might be engaged. He could, I say, swim with Robin, which would save me many qualms, and take children on expeditions. Am I, asks Robert, prepared to pay ten guineas a week for these services? Reply to this being self-evident, I do not make it, and write a letter to well-known scholastic agency.

July 29th.--Brittany practically settled, small place near Dinard selected, passports frantically looked for, discovered in improbable places, such as linen cupboard, and--in Robert's case--acting as wedge to insecurely poised chest of drawers in dressing-room--and brought up to date at considerable expense.

I hold long conversations with Travel Agency regarding hotel accommodation and registration of luggage, and also interview two holiday tutors, between whom and myself instant and violent antipathy springs up at first sight.

One of these suggests that seven and a half guineas weekly would be suitable remuneration, and informs me that he must have his evenings to himself, and the other one assures me that he is a good disciplinarian but insists upon having a Free Hand. I reply curtly that this is not what I require, and we part.

July 30th.--Wholly frightful day, entirely given up to saying good-bye to Mademoiselle. She gives us all presents, small frame composed entirely of mussel shells covered with gilt paint falling to Robert's share, and pink wool bed-socks, with four-leaved clover worked on each, to mine. We present her in return with blue leather hand-bag--into inner pocket of which I have inserted cheque--travelling clock, and small rolled-gold brooch representing crossed tennis racquets, with artificial pearl for ball--(individual effort of Robin and Vicky). All ends in emotional crescendo, culminating in floods of tears from Mademoiselle, who says nothing except Mais voyons! Il faut se calmer, and then weeps harder than ever. Should like to see some of this feeling displayed by children, but they remain stolid, and I explain to Mademoiselle that the reserve of the British is well known, and denotes no lack of heart, but rather the contrary.

(On thinking this over, am pretty sure that it is not in the least true--but am absolutely clear that if occasion arose again, should deliberately say the same thing.)

August 4th.--Travel to Salisbury, for express purpose of interviewing Holiday Tutor, who has himself journeyed from Reading. Terrific expenditure of time and money involved in all this makes me feel that he must at all costs be engaged--but am aware that this is irrational, and make many resolutions against foolish impetuosity.

We meet in uninspiring waiting-room, untenanted by anybody else, and I restrain myself with great difficulty from saying "Doctor Livingstone, I presume?" which would probably make him doubtful of my sanity.

Tutor looks about eighteen, but assures me that he is nearly thirty, and has been master at Prep. School in Huntingdonshire for years and years.

(N.B. Huntingdon most improbable-sounding, but am nearly sure that it does exist. Mem.: Look it up in Vicky's atlas on return home.)

Conversation leads to mutual esteem. I am gratified by the facts that he neither interrupts me every time I speak, nor assures me that he knows more about Robin than I do--(Query: Can he really be a schoolmaster?)--and we part cordially, with graceful assurances on my part that "I will write". Just as he departs I remember that small, but embarrassing, issue still has to be faced, and recall him in order to enquire what I owe him for to-day's expenses? He says Oh, nothing worth talking about, and then mentions a sum which appalls me. Pay it, however, without blenching, although well aware it will mean that I shall have to forgo tea in the train, owing to customary miscalculation as to amount of cash required for the day.

Consult Robert on my return; he says Do as I think best, and adds irrelevant statement about grass needing cutting, and I write to Huntingdonshire forthwith, and engage tutor to accompany us to Brittany.

Painful, and indeed despairing, reflections ensue as to relative difficulties of obtaining a tutor and a cook.

August 6th.--Mademoiselle departs, with one large trunk and eight pieces of hand luggage, including depressed-looking bouquet of marigolds, spontaneously offered by Robin. (N.B. Have always said, and shall continue to say, that fundamentally Robin has nicer nature than dear Vicky.) We exchange embraces; she promises to come and stay with us next summer, and says Allons, du courage, n'est-ce pas? and weeps again. Robert says that she will miss her train, and they depart for the station, Mademoiselle waving her handkerchief to the last, and hanging across the door at distinctly dangerous angle.

Vicky says cheerfully How soon will the Tutor arrive? and Robin picks up Helen Wills and offers to take her to see if there are any greengages--(which there cannot possibly be, as he ate the last ones, totally unripe, yesterday).

Second post brings me letter from Emma Hay, recalling Belgium--where, says Emma, I was the greatest success, underlined--which statement is not only untrue, but actually an insult to such intelligence as I may possess. She hears that I have taken a flat in London--(How?)--and is more than delighted, and there are many, many admirers of my work who will want to meet me the moment I arrive.

Am distressed at realising that although I know every word of dear Emma's letter to be entirely untrue, yet nevertheless cannot help being slightly gratified by it. Vagaries of human vanity very very curious. Cannot make up my mind in what strain to reply to Emma, so decide to postpone doing so at all for the present.

Children unusually hilarious all the evening, and am forced to conclude that loss of Mademoiselle leaves them entirely indifferent.

Read Hatter's Castle after they have gone to bed, and am rapidly reduced to utmost depths of gloom. Mentally compose rather eloquent letter to Book Society explaining that most of us would rather be exhilarated than depressed, although at the same time handsomely admitting that book is, as they themselves claim, undoubtedly powerful. But remember Juan in America--earlier choice much approved by myself--and decide to forbear. Also Robert says Do I know that it struck half-past ten five minutes ago? which I know means that he wants to put out Helen Wills, bolt front door and extinguish lights. I accordingly abandon all thoughts of eloquent letters to unknown littérateurs and go to bed.

August 7th.--Holiday Tutor arrives, and I immediately turn over both children to him, and immerse myself in preparations for journey, now imminent, to Brittany. At the same time, view of garden from behind bedroom window curtains permits me to ascertain that all three are amicably playing tip-and-run on lawn. This looks like auspicious beginning, and am relieved.

August 8th.--Final, and exhaustive, preparations for journey. Eleventh hour salvation descends in shape of temporary cook, offered me through telephone by Mary Kellaway, who solemnly engages to send her over one day before our return. Maids dismissed on holiday, gardener and wife solemnly adjured to Keep an Eye on the house and feed Helen Wills, and I ask tutor to sit on Robin's suitcase so that I can shut it, then forget having done so and go to store-cupboard for soap--French trains and hotels equally deficient in this commodity--and return hours later to find him still sitting there, exactly like Casabianca. Apologise profusely, am told that it does not matter, and suitcase is successfully dealt with.

Weather gets worse and worse, Shipping Forecast reduces us all to despair--(except Vicky, who says she does so hope we shall be wrecked)--and gale rises hourly. I tell Casabianca that I hope he's a good sailor; he says No, very bad indeed, and Robert suddenly announces that he can see no sense whatever in leaving home at all.

August 10th.--St. Briac achieved, at immense cost of nervous wear and tear. Casabianca invaluable in every respect, but am--rather unjustly--indignant when he informs me that he has slept all night long. History of my own night very different to this, and have further had to cope with Vicky, who does not close an eye after four A.M. and is brisk and conversational, and Robin, who becomes extremely ill from five onwards.

Land at St. Malo, in severe gale and torrents of rain, and Vicky and Robin express astonishment at hearing French spoken all round them, and Robert says that the climate reminds him of England. Casabianca says nothing, but gives valuable help with luggage and later on tells us, very nicely, that we have lost one suitcase. This causes delay, also a great deal of conversation between taxi-driver who is to take us to St. Briac, porter and unidentified friend of taxi-driver's who enters passionately into the whole affair and says fervently Ah, grâce a Dieu! when suitcase eventually reappears. Entire incident affords taxi-driver fund for conversation all the way to St. Briac, and he talks to us over his shoulder at frequent intervals. Robert does not seem to appreciate this, and can only hope that taxi-driver is no physiognomist, as if so, his feelings will inevitably be hurt.

We pass through several villages, and I say This must be it, to each, and nobody takes any notice except Casabianca, who is polite and simulates interest, until we finally whisk into a little place and stop in front of cheerful-looking Hotel with awning and little green tables outside--all dripping wet. Am concerned to notice no sign of sea anywhere, but shelve this question temporarily, in order to deal with luggage, allotment of bedrooms--(mistake has occurred here, and Madame shows cast-iron determination to treat Casabianca and myself as husband and wife)--and immediate cafés complets for all. These arrive, and we consume them in the hall under close and unwavering inspection of about fifteen other visitors, all British and all objectionable-looking.

Inspection of rooms ensues; Robin says When can we bathe--at which, in view of temperature, I feel myself growing rigid with apprehension--and general process of unpacking and settling in follows. Robert, during this, disappears completely, and is only recovered hours later, when he announces that The Sea is about Twenty Minutes' Walk.

General feeling prevails that I am to blame, about this, but nothing can be done, and Casabianca, after thoughtful silence, remarks that Anyway the walk will warm us. Cannot make up my mind whether this is, or is not, high example of tact. Subsequent experience, however, proves that it is totally untrue, as we all--excepting children--arrive at large and windy beach in varying degrees of chilliness. Sea is extremely green, with large and agitated waves, blown about by brisk East wind. Incredible and stupefying reflection that in less than quarter of an hour we shall be in the water--and am definitely aware that I would give quite considerable sum of money to be allowed to remain in my clothes, and on dry land. Have strong suspicion that similar frame of mind prevails elsewhere, but all cram ourselves into two bathing-huts with false assumption of joviality, and presently emerge, inadequately clad in bathing-suits.

(N.B. Never select blue bathing-cap again. This may be all right when circulation normal, but otherwise, effect repellent in the extreme.)

Children dash in boldly, closely followed by Holiday Tutor--to whom I mentally assign high marks for this proof of devotion to duty, as he is pea-green with cold, and obviously shivering--Robert remains on edge of sea, looking entirely superior, and I crawl with excessive reluctance into several inches of water and there become completely paralysed. Shrieks from children, who say that It is Glorious, put an end to this state of affairs, and eventually we all swim about, and tell one another that really it isn't so very cold in the water, but better not stay in too long on the first day.

Regain bathing-huts thankfully and am further cheered by arrival of ancient man with eau chaude pour les pieds.

Remainder of day devoted to excellent meals, exploring of St. Briac between terrific downpours of rain, and purchase of biscuits, stamps, writing-pad, peaches--(very inexpensive and excellent)--and Tauchnitz volume of Sherlock Holmes for Robin, and Robinson Crusoe for Vicky.

Children eventually disposed of in bed, and Robert and Casabianca discuss appearance of our fellow-visitors with gloom and disapproval, and join in condemning me for suggesting that we should enter into conversation with all or any of them. Cannot at all admire this extremely British frame of mind, and tell them so, but go up to bed immediately before they have time to answer.

August 13th.--Opinion that St. Briac is doing us all good, definitely gaining ground. Bathing becomes less agonising, and children talk French freely with Hotel chambermaids, who are all charming. Continental breakfast unhappily not a success with Robert, who refers daily to bacon in rather embittered way, but has nothing but praise for langoustes and entrecôtes which constitute customary luncheon menu.

Casabianca proves admirable disciplinarian, after fearful contest with Robin concerning length of latter's stay in water. During this episode, I remain in bathing-hut, dripping wet and with one eye glued to small wooden slats through which I can see progress of affairs. Just as I am debating whether to interfere or not, Robin is vanquished, and marched out of sea with appalling calm by Casabianca. Remainder of the day wrapped in gloom, but reconciliation takes place at night, and Casabianca assures me that all will henceforward be well. (N.B. The young often very optimistic.)

August 15th.--I enter into conversation with two of fellow-guests at hotel, one of whom is invariably referred to by Robert as "the retired Rag-picker" owing to unfortunate appearance, suggestive of general decay. He tells me about his wife, dead years ago--(am not surprised at this)--who was, he says, a genius in her own way. Cannot find out what way was. He also adds that he himself has written books. I ask what about, and he says Psychology, but adds no more. We talk about weather--bad here, but worse in England--Wolverhampton, which he once went through and where I have never been at all--and humane slaughter, of which both of us declare ourselves to be in favour. Conversation then becomes languid, and shows a tendency to revert to weather, but am rescued by Casabianca, who says he thinks I am wanted--which sounds like the police, but is not.

Casabianca inclined to look superior, and suggest that really, the way people force their acquaintance upon one when abroad--but I decline to respond to this and tell him in return that there will be a dance at the hotel to-night and that I intend to go to it. He looks horror-stricken, and says no more.

Small problem of conduct arises here, as had no previous intention whatever of patronising dance, where I know well that Robert will flatly refuse to escort me--but do not see now how I can possibly get out of it. (Query: Would it be possible to compel Casabianca to act as my partner, however much against his inclination? This solution possibly undignified, but not without rather diverting aspect.)

Look for Vicky in place, where she habitually spends much time, playing with mongrel French dogs in gutter. Elderly English spinster--sandy-haired, and name probably Vi--tells me excitedly that some of the dogs have not been behaving quite decently, and it isn't very nice for my little girl to be with them. I reply curtly that Dogs will be Dogs, and think--too late--of many much better answers. Dogs all seem to me to be entirely respectable and well-conducted and see no reason whatever for interfering with any of them. Instead, go with Robin to grocery across the street, where we buy peaches, biscuits and bunches of small black grapes. It pours with rain, Vicky and dogs disperse, and we return indoors to play General Information in obscure corner of dining-room.

Casabianca proves distressingly competent at this, and defeats everybody, Robert included, with enquiry: "What is Wallis's line?" which eventually turns out to be connected with distinction--entirely unintelligible to me--between one form of animal life and another. Should like to send him to explain it to Vi, and see what she says--but do not, naturally, suggest this.

Children ask excessively ancient riddles, and supply the answers themselves, and Robert concentrates on arithmetical problems. Receive these in silence, and try and think of any field of knowledge in which I can hope to distinguish myself--but without success. Finally, Robin challenges me with what are Seven times Nine? to which I return brisk, but, as it turns out, incorrect, reply. Casabianca takes early opportunity of referring, though kindly, to this, and eventually suggests that half an hour's arithmetic daily would make my accounts much simpler. I accept his offer, although inwardly aware that only drastic reduction of expenditure, and improbable increase of income, could really simplify accounts--but quite agree that counting on fingers is entirely undesirable procedure, at any time of life, but more especially when early youth is past.

Bathing takes place as usual, but additional excitement is provided by sudden dramatic appearance of unknown French youth who asks us all in turns if we are doctors, as a German gentleman is having a fit in a bathing-hut. Casabianca immediately dashes into the sea--which--he declares--an English doctor has just entered. (Query: Is this second sight, or what?) Robin and Vicky enquire with one voice if they can go and see the German gentleman having a fit, and are with great difficulty withheld from making one dash for his bathing-cabin, already surrounded by large and excited collection.

Opinions fly about to the effect that the German gentleman is unconscious--that he has come round--that he is already dead--that he has been murdered. At this, several people scream, and a French lady says Il ne manquait que cela! which makes me wonder what the rest of her stay at St. Briac can possibly have been like.

Ask Robert if he does not think he ought to go and help, but he says What for? and walks away.

Casabianca returns, dripping, from the sea, followed by equally dripping stranger, presumably the doctor, and I hastily remove children from spectacle probably to be seen when bathing-hut opens; the last thing I hear being assurance from total stranger to Casabianca that he is tout à fait aimable.

Entire episode ends in anti-climax when Casabianca shortly afterwards returns, and informs us that The Doctor Said it was Indigestion, and the German gentleman is now walking home with his wife--who is, he adds impressively, a Norwegian. This, for reasons which continue to defy analysis, seems to add weight and respectability to whole affair.

We return to hotel, again caught in heavy shower, are besought by Robin and Vicky to stop and eat ices at revolting English tea-shop, which they patriotically prefer to infinitely superior French establishments, and weakly yield. Wind whistles through cotton frock--already wet through--that I have mistakenly put on, and Casabianca, after gazing at me thoughtfully for some moments, murmurs that I look Pale--which I think really means, Pale Mauve.

On reaching hotel, defy question of expense, and take hot bath, at cost of four francs, prix spécial.

Children, with much slamming of doors, and a great deal of conversation, eventually get to bed, and I say to Robert that we might look in at the dance after dinner--which seems easier than saying that I should like to go to it.

Robert's reply much what I expected. Eventually find myself crawling into dance-room, sideways, and sitting in severe draught, watching le tango, which nobody dances at all well. Casabianca, evidently feeling it his duty, reluctantly suggests that we should dance the next foxtrot--which we do, and it turns out to be Lucky Spot dance and we very nearly--but not quite--win bottle of champagne. This, though cannot say why, has extraordinarily encouraging effect, and we thereupon dance quite gaily until midnight.

August 18th.--Singular encounter takes place between Casabianca and particularly rigid and unapproachable elderly fellow-countryman in hotel, who habitually walks about in lounge wearing canary-yellow cardigan, and eyes us all with impartial dislike. Am therefore horrified when he enquires, apparently of universe at large: "What's afoot?" and Casabianca informatively replies: "Twelve inches one foot"--evidently supposing himself to be addressing customary collection of small and unintelligent schoolboys. Canary-yellow cardigan is naturally infuriated, and says that he did not get up early in the morning in order to put conundrums, or listen to their idiotic solutions--and unpleasant situation threatens.

Further discussion is, however, averted by Vicky, who falls into large open space which has suddenly appeared in floor, and becomes entangled with pipes that I hope are Gas, but much fear may be Drains. She is rescued, amongst loud cries of Ah, pauvre petite! and Oh, là là! and Casabianca removes her and says austerely that People should look where they are going. Should like to retort that People should think what they are saying--but unfortunately this only occurs to me too late.

Robert, on being told of this incident, laughs whole-heartedly for the first time since coming to St. Briac, and I reflect--as so frequently before--that masculine sense of humour is odd.

Discover that Robin is wearing last available pair of shorts, and that these are badly torn, which necessitates visit to Dinard to take white shorts to cleaners and buy material with which to patch grey ones. No one shows any eagerness to escort me on this expedition and I finally depart alone.

French gentleman with moustache occupies one side of bus and I the other, and we look at one another. Extraordinary and quite unheralded idea springs into my mind to the effect that it is definitely agreeable to find myself travelling anywhere, for any purpose, without dear Robert or either of the children. Am extremely aghast at this unnatural outbreak and try to ignore it.

(Query: Does not modern psychology teach that definite danger attaches to deliberate stifling of any impulse, however unhallowed? Answer probably Yes. Cannot, however, ignore the fact that even more definite danger probably attached to encouragement of unhallowed impulse. Can only conclude that peril lies in more or less every direction.)

The moustache and I look out of our respective windows, but from time to time turn round. This exercise not without a certain fascination. Should be very sorry indeed to recall in any detail peculiar fantasies that pass through my mind before Dinard is reached.

Bus stops opposite Casino, the moustache and I rise simultaneously--unfortunately bus gives a last jerk and I sit violently down again--and all is over. Final death-blow to non-existent romance is given when Robin's white shorts, now in last stages of dirt and disreputability, slide out of inadequate paper wrappings and are collected from floor by bus-conductor and returned to me.

Dinard extremely cold, and full of very unengaging trippers, most of whom have undoubtedly come from Lancashire. I deal with cleaners, packet of Lux, chocolate for children, and purchase rose-coloured bathing-cloak for myself, less because I think it suitable or becoming than because I hope it may conduce to slight degree of warmth.

Am moved by obscure feelings of remorse--(what about, in Heaven's name?)--to buy Robert a present, but can see nothing that he would not dislike immeasurably. Finally in desperation select small lump of lead, roughly shaped to resemble Napoleonic outline, and which I try to think may pass as rather unusual antique.

Do not like to omit Casabianca from this universal distribution, so purchase Tauchnitz edition of my own literary effort, but think afterwards that this is both tactless and egotistical, and wish I hadn't done it. Drink chocolate in crowded pâtisserie, all by myself, and surrounded by screeching strangers; am sure that French cakes used to be nicer in far-away youthful days, and feel melancholy and middle-aged. Sight of myself in glass when I powder my nose does nothing whatever to dispel any of it.

August 19th.--Robert asks if Napoleonic figure is meant for a paper-weight? I am inwardly surprised and relieved at this extremely ingenious idea, and at once say Yes, certainly. Can see by Robert's expression that he feels doubtful, but firmly change subject immediately.

Day unmarked by any particularly sensational development except that waves are even larger than usual, and twice succeed in knocking me off my feet, the last time just as I am assuring Vicky that she is perfectly safe with me. Robert retrieves us both from extremest depths of the ocean, and Vicky roars. Two small artificial curls--Scylla and Charybdis--always worn under bathing-cap in order that my own hair may be kept dry--are unfortunately swept away, together with bathing-cap, in this disaster, and seen no more. Bathing-cap retrieved by Casabianca, but do not like to enquire whether he cannot also pursue Scylla and Charybdis, and am accordingly obliged to return to shore without them.

(Interesting, although unprofitable, speculation comes into being here: Would not conflict between chivalry and common sense have arisen if Casabianca had sighted elusive side-curls, Scylla and Charybdis? What, moreover, would have been acceptable formula for returning them to me? Should much like to put this problem to him, but decide not to do so, at any rate for the present.)

August 21st.--End of stay at St. Briac approaches, and I begin to feel sentimental, but this weakness unshared by anybody else.

Loss of Scylla and Charybdis very inconvenient indeed.

August 23rd.--Am put to shame by Vicky whilst sitting outside drinking coffee on the place with Robert and Casabianca, fellow-guests surrounding us on every side. She bawls from an upper window that she is just going to bed, but has not kissed Casabianca good-night and would like to do so. I crane my head upwards at very uncomfortable angle and sign to her to desist, upon which she obligingly yells that To-morrow morning will do, and everybody looks at us. Casabianca remains unperturbed, and merely says chillingly that he Hopes she will Wash her Face first. On thinking this over, it strikes me as surely unsurpassed effort as deterrent to undesired advances, and can only trust that Vicky will not brazenly persist in path of amorous indiscretion in spite of it.

(N.B. Am often a prey to serious anxiety as to dear Vicky's future career. Question suggests itself: Is Success in Life incompatible with High Moral Ideals? Answer, whatever it is, more or less distressing. Can only trust that delightful scholastic establishment at Mickleham will be able to deal adequately with this problem.)

Robert shows marked tendency to say that Decent English Food again will come as a great relief, and is more cheerful than I have seen him since we left home. Take advantage of this to suggest that he and I should visit Casino at Dinard and play roulette, which may improve immediate finances, now very low, and in fact have twice had to borrow from Casabianca, without saying anything about it to Robert.

Casino agreed upon, and we put on best clothes--which have hitherto remained folded in suitcase and extremely inadequate shelves of small wardrobe that always refuses to open.

Bus takes us to Dinard at breakneck speed, and deposits us at Casino. All is electric light, advertisement--(Byrrh)--and vacancy, and bartender tells us that no one will think of arriving before eleven o'clock. We have a drink each, for want of anything better to do, and sit on green velvet sofa and read advertisements. Robert asks What is Gala des Tou-tous? and seems disappointed when I say that I think it is little dogs. Should like--or perhaps not--to know what he thought it was.

We continue to sit on green velvet sofa, and bar-tender looks sorry for us, and turns on more electric light. This obliges us, morally, to have another drink each, which we do. I develop severe pain behind the eyes--(Query: Wood-alcohol, or excess of electric light?)--and feel slightly sick. Also Byrrh now wavering rather oddly on wall.

Robert says Well, as though he were going to make a suggestion, but evidently thinks better of it again, and nothing transpires. After what seems like several hours of this, three men with black faces and musical instruments come in, and small, shrouded heap in far corner of salle reveals itself as a piano.

Bar-tender, surprisingly, has yet further resources at his command in regard to electric light, and we are flooded with still greater illumination. Scene still further enlivened by arrival of very old gentleman in crumpled dress-clothes, stout woman in a green beaded dress that suggests Kensington High Street, and very young girl with cropped hair and scarlet arms. They stand in the very middle of the salle and look bewildered, and I feel that Robert and I are old habitués.

Robert says dashingly What About Another Drink? and I say No, better not, and then have one, and feel worse than ever. Look at Robert to see if he has noticed anything, and am struck by curious air about him, as of having been boiled and glazed. Cannot make up my mind whether this is, or is not, illusion produced by my own state, and feel better not to enquire, but devote entire attention to focussing Byrrh in spot where first sighted, instead of pursuing it all over walls and ceiling.

By the time this more or less accomplished, quite a number of people arrived, though all presenting slightly lost and dégommé appearance.

Robert stares at unpleasant-looking elderly man with red hair, and says Good Heavens, if that isn't old Pinkie Morrison, whom he last met in Shanghai Bar in nineteen-hundred-and-twelve. I say, Is he a friend? and Robert replies No, he never could stand the fellow, and old Pinkie Morrison is allowed to lapse once more.

Am feeling extremely ill, and obliged to say so, and Robert suggests tour of the rooms, which we accomplish in silence. Decide, by mutual consent, that we do not want to play roulette, or anything else, but would prefer to go back to bed, and Robert says he thought at the time that those drinks had something fishy about them.

I am reminded, by no means for the first time, of Edgeworthian classic, Rosamond and the Party of Pleasure--but literary allusions never a great success with Robert at any time, and feel sure that this is no moment for taking undue risks.

We return to St. Briac and make no further reference to evening's outing, except that Robert enquires, just as I am dropping off to sleep, whether it seems quite worth while, having spent seventy francs or so just for the sake of being poisoned and seeing a foul sight like old Pinkie Morrison? This question entirely rhetorical, and make no attempt to reply to it.

August 24th.--Much struck with extreme tact and good feeling of Casabianca at breakfast, who, after one look at Robert and myself, refrains from pressing the point as to How We enjoyed the Casino last night?

August 27th.--Last Day now definitely upon us, and much discussion as to how we are to spend it. Robert suggests Packing--but this not intended to be taken seriously--and Casabianca assures us that extremely interesting and instructive Ruins lie at a distance of less than forty kilometres, should we care to visit them. Am sorry to say that none of us do care to visit them, though I endeavour to palliate this by feeble and unconvincing reference to unfavourable weather.

I say what about Saint Cast, which is reputed to have admirable water-chute? or swimming-baths at Dinard? Children become uncontrollably agitated here, and say Oh, please can we bathe in the morning, and then come back to hotel for lunch, and bathe again in the afternoon and have tea at English Tea-Rooms? As this programme is precisely the one that we have been following daily ever since we arrived, nothing could be easier, and we agree. I make mental note to the effect that the young are definitely dependent on routine, and have dim idea of evolving interesting little article on the question, to be handsomely paid for by daily Press--but nothing comes of it.

Packing takes place, and Casabianca reminds me--kindly, but with an air of having expected rather better staff-work--that Robin's shorts are still at cleaners in Dinard. I say 0 Hell, and then weakly add -p to the end of it, and hope he hasn't noticed, and he offers to go into Dinard and fetch them. I say No, no, really, I shouldn't dream of troubling him, and he goes, but unfortunately brings back wrong parcel, from which we extract gigantic pair of white flannel trousers that have nothing to do with any of us.

French chambermaid, Germaine, who has followed entire affair from the start, says Mon Dieu! alors c'est tout à recommencer? which has a despairing ring, and makes me feel hopeless, but Casabianca again comes to the rescue and assures me that he can Telephone.

(N.B. Casabianca's weekly remuneration entirely inadequate and have desperate thoughts of doubling it on the spot, but financial considerations render this impossible, and perhaps better concentrate on repaying him four hundred francs borrowed on various occasions since arrival here.)

We go to bathe as usual, and I am accosted by strange woman in yellow pyjamas--cannot imagine how she can survive the cold--who says she met me in South Audley Street some years ago, don't I remember? Have no association whatever with South Audley Street, except choosing dinner-service there with Robert in distant days of wedding presents--(dinner service now no longer with us, and replaced by vastly inferior copy of Wedgwood). However, I say Yes, yes, of course, and yellow pyjamas at once introduces My boy at Dartmouth--very lank and mottled, and does not look me in the eye--My Sister who Has a Villa Out Here, and My Sister's Youngest Girl--Cheltenham College. Feel that I ought to do something on my side, but look round in vain, Robert, children and Casabianca all having departed, with superhuman rapidity, to extremely distant rock.

The sister with the villa says that she has read my book--ha-ha-ha--and how do I think of it all? I look blankly at her and say that I don't know, and feel that I am being inadequate. Everybody else evidently thinks so too, and rather distressing silence ensues, ice-cold wind--cannot say why, or from whence--suddenly rising with great violence and blowing us all to pieces.

I say Well, more feebly than ever, and yellow pyjamas says 0 dear, this weather, really--and supposes that we shall all meet down here to-morrow, and I say Yes, of course, before I remember that we cross to-night--but feel quite unable to reopen discussion, and retire to bathing-cabin.

Robert enquires later who that woman was? and I say that I cannot remember, but think her name was something like Busvine. After some thought, Robert says Was it Morton? to which I reply No, more like Chamberlain.

Hours later, remember that it was Heywood.

August 28th.--Depart from St. Briac by bus at seven o'clock, amidst much agitation. Entire personnel of hotel assembles to see us off, and Vicky kisses everybody. Robin confines himself to shaking hands quite suddenly with elderly Englishman in plus-fours--with whom he has never before exchanged a word--and elderly Englishman says that Now, doors will no longer slam on his landing every evening, he supposes. (N.B. Disquieting thought: does this consideration perhaps account for the enthusiasm with which we are all being despatched on our way?)

Robert counts luggage, once in French and three times in English, and I hear Casabianca--who has never of his own free will exchanged a syllable with any of his fellow-guests--replying to the retired Rag-picker's hopes of meeting again some day, with civil assent. Am slightly surprised at this.

(Query: Why should display of duplicity in others wear more serious aspect than similar lapse in oneself? Answer comes there none.)

Bus removes us from St. Briac, and we reach Dinard, and are there told that boat is not sailing to-night, and that we can (a) Sleep at St. Malo, (b) Remain at Dinard or (c) Return to St. Briac. All agree that this last would be intolerable anti-climax and not to be thought of, and that accommodation must be sought at Dinard.

Robert says that this is going to run us in for another ten pounds at least--which it does.

September 1st.--Home once more, and customary vicissitudes thick as leaves in Vallombrosa.

Temporary cook duly arrived, and is reasonably amiable--though soup a disappointment and strong tincture of Worcester Sauce bodes ill for general standard of cooking--but tells me that Everything was left in sad muddle, saucepans not even clean, and before she can do anything whatever will require three pudding basins, new frying-pan, fish-kettle and colander, in addition to egg-whisk, kitchen forks, and complete restocking of store-cupboard.

St. Briac hundreds of miles away already, and feel that twenty years have been added to my age and appearance since reaching home. Robert, on the other hand, looks happier.

Weather cold, and it rains in torrents. Casabianca ingenious in finding occupations for children and is also firm about proposed arithmetic lesson for myself, which takes place after lunch. Seven times table unfortunately presents difficulty that appears, so far, to be insuperable.

September 3rd.--Ask Robert if he remembers my bridesmaid, Felicity Fairmead, and he says Was that the little one with fair hair? and I say No, the very tall one with dark hair, and he says Oh yes--which does not at all convince me. Upshot of this conversation, rather strangely, is that I ask Felicity to stay, as she has been ill, and is ordered rest in the country. She replies gratefully, spare room is Turned Out--(paper lining drawer of dressing-table has to be renewed owing to last guest having omitted to screw up lip-stick securely--this probably dear Angela, but cannot be sure--and mysterious crack discovered in looking-glass, attributed--almost certainly unjustly--to Helen Wills).

I tell Casabianca at lunch that Miss Fairmead is very Musical--which is true, but has nothing to do with approaching visit, and in any case does not concern him--and he replies suitably, and shortly afterwards suggests that we should go through the Rule of Three. We do go through it, and come out the other end in more or less shattered condition. Moreover, am still definitely defeated by Seven times Eight.

September 5th.--I go up to London--Robert says, rather unnecessarily, that he supposes money is no object nowadays?--to see about the Flat. This comprises very exhausting, but interesting, sessions at furniture-shop, where I lose my head to the tune of about fifty pounds, and realise too late that dear Robert's attitude perhaps not altogether without justification.

Rose unfortunately out of town, so have to sleep at Club, and again feel guilty regarding expenditure, so dine on sausage-and-mash at Lyons establishment opposite to pallid young man who reads book mysteriously shrouded in holland cover. Feel that I must discover what this is at all costs, and conjectures waver between The Well of Loneliness and The Colonel's Daughter, until title can be spelt out upside down, when it turns out to be Gulliver's Travels. Distressing side-light thrown here on human nature by undeniable fact that I am distinctly disappointed by this discovery, although cannot imagine why.

In street outside I meet Viscountess once known to me in South of France, but feel doubtful if she will remember me so absorb myself passionately in shop-front, which I presently discover to be entirely filled with very peculiar appliances. Turn away again, and confront Viscountess, who remembers me perfectly, and is charming about small literary effort, which she definitely commits herself to having read. I walk with her to Ashley Gardens and tell her about the flat, which she says is the Very Thing--but does not add what for.

I say it is too late for me to come up with her, and she says Oh no, and we find lift out of order--which morally compels me to accept her invitation, as otherwise it would look as if I didn't think her worth five flights of stairs.

Am shown into beautiful fiat--first-floor Doughty Street would easily fit, lock, stock and barrel, into dining-room--and Viscountess says that the housekeeper is out, but would I like anything? I say a glass of water, please, and she is enthusiastic about the excellence of this idea, and goes out, returning, after prolonged absence, with large jug containing about an inch of water, and two odd tumblers, on a tray. I meditate writing a short article on How the Rich Live, but naturally say nothing of this aloud, and Viscountess explains that she does not know where drinking-water in the flat is obtainable, so took what was left from dinner. I make civil pretence of thinking this entirely admirable arrangement, and drink about five drops--which is all that either of us can get after equitable division of supplies. We talk about Rose, St. John Ervine and the South of France, and I add a few words about Belgium, but lay no stress on literary society encountered there.

Finally go, at eleven o'clock, and man outside Victoria Station says Good-night, girlie, but cannot view this as tribute to lingering remnant of youthful attractions as (a) it is practically pitch-dark, (b) he sounds as though he were drunk.

Return to Club bedroom and drink entire contents of water bottle.

September 6th.--Housekeeper from flat above mine in Doughty Street comes to my rescue, offers to obtain charwoman, stain floors, receive furniture and do everything else. Accept all gratefully, and take my departure with keys of flat--which makes me feel, quite unreasonably, exactly like a burglar. Should like to analyse this rather curious complex, and consider doing so in train, but all eludes me, and read Grand Hotel instead.

September 7th.--Felicity arrives, looking ill. (Query: Why is this by no means unbecoming to her, whereas my own afflictions invariably entail mud-coloured complexion, immense accumulation of already only-too-visible lines on face, and complete limpness of hair?) She is, as usual, charming to the children--does not tell them they have grown, or ask Robin how he likes school, and scores immediate success with both.

I ask what she likes for dinner--(should be indeed out of countenance if she suggested anything except chicken, sardines or tinned corn, which so far as I know is all we have in the house)--and she says An Egg. And what about breakfast to-morrow morning? She says An Egg again, and adds in a desperate way that an egg is all she wants for any meal, ever.

Send Vicky to the farm with a message about quantity of eggs to be supplied daily for the present.

Felicity lies down to rest, and I sit on windowsill and talk to her. We remind one another of extraordinary, and now practically incredible, incidents in bygone schooldays, and laugh a good deal, and I feel temporarily younger and better-looking.

Remember with relief that Felicity is amongst the few of my friends that Robert does like, and evening passes agreeably with wireless and conversation. Suggest a picnic for to-morrow--at which Robert says firmly that he is obliged to spend entire day in Plymouth--and tie knot in handkerchief to remind myself that cook must be told jam sandwiches, not cucumber. Take Felicity to her room, and hope that she has enough blankets--if not, nothing can be easier than to produce others without any trouble whatever--Well, in that case, says Felicity, perhaps--Go to linen-cupboard and can find nothing there whatever except immense quantities of embroidered tea-cloths, unhealthy-looking pillow oozing feathers, and torn roller-towel. Go to Robin's bed, but find him wide-awake, and quite impervious to suggestion that he does not really want more than one blanket on his bed, so have recourse to Vicky, who is asleep. Remove blanket, find it is the only one and replace it, and finally take blanket off my own bed, and put in on Felicity's, where it does not fit, and has to be tucked in till mattress resembles a valley between two hills. Express hope--which sounds ironical--that she may sleep well, and leave her.

September 8th.--Our Vicar's Wife calls in the middle of the morning, in deep distress because no one can be found to act as producer in forthcoming Drama Competition. Will I be an angel? I say firmly No, not on this occasion, and am not sure that Our Vicar's Wife does not, on the whole, look faintly relieved. But what, I ask, about herself? No--Our Vicar has put his foot down. Mothers' Union, Women's Institute, G.F.S. and Choir Outings by all means--but one evening in the week must and shall be kept clear. Our Vicar's Wife, says Our Vicar, is destroying herself, and this he cannot allow. Quite feel that the case, put like this, is unanswerable.

Our Vicar's Wife then says that she knows the very person--excellent actress, experienced producer, willing to come without fee. Unfortunately, is now living at Melbourne, Australia. Later on she also remembers other, equally talented, acquaintances, one of whom can now never leave home on account of invalid husband, the other of whom died just eleven months ago.

I feel that we are getting no further, but Our Vicar's Wife says that it has been a great relief to talk it all over, and perhaps after all she can persuade Our Vicar to let her take it on, and we thereupon part affectionately.

September 10th.--Picnic, put off on several occasions owing to weather, now takes place, but is--like so many entertainments--rather qualified success, partly owing to extremely mountainous character of spot selected. Felicity shows gallant determination to make the best of this, and only begs to be allowed to take her own time, to which we all agree, and divide rugs, baskets, cushions, thermos flasks and cameras amongst ourselves. Ascent appears to me to take hours, moreover am agitated about Felicity, who seems to be turning a rather sinister pale blue colour. Children full of zeal and activity, and dash on ahead, leaving trail of things dropped on the way. Casabianca, practically invisible beneath two rugs, mackintosh and heaviest basket, recalls them, at which Robin looks murderous, and Vicky feigns complete deafness, and disappears over the horizon.

Question as to whether we shall sit in the sun or out of the sun arises, and gives rise to much amiable unselfishness, but is finally settled by abrupt disappearance of sun behind heavy clouds, where it remains. Felicity sits down and pants, but is less blue. I point out scenery, which constitutes only possible excuse for having brought her to such heights, and she is appreciative. Discover that sugar has been left behind. Children suggest having tea at once, but are told that it is only four o'clock, and they had better explore first. This results in Robin's climbing a tree, and taking Pickwick Papers out of his pocket to read, and Vicky lying flat on her back in the path, and chewing blades of grass. Customary caution as to unhygienic properties peculiar to blades of grass ensues, and I wonder--not for the first time--why parents continue to repeat admonitions to which children never have paid, and never will pay, slightest attention. Am inspired by this reflection to observe suddenly to Felicity that, anyway, I'm glad my children aren't prigs--at which she looks startled, and says, Certainly not--far from it--but perceive that she has not in any way followed my train of thought--which is in no way surprising.

We talk about Italy, the Book Society--Red Ike a fearful mistake, but The Forge good--and how can Mr. Hugh Walpole find time for all that reading, and write his own books as well--and then again revert to far-distant schooldays, and ask one another what became of that girl with the eyes, who had a father in Patagonia, and if anybody ever heard any more of the black satin woman who taught dancing the last year we were there?

Casabianca, who alone has obeyed injunction to explore, returns, followed by unknown black-and-white dog, between whom and Vicky boisterous and ecstatic friendship instantly springs into being--and I unpack baskets, main contents of which appear to be bottles of lemonade--at which Felicity again reverts to paleblueness--and pink sugar-biscuits. Can only hope that children enjoy their meal.

Customary feelings of chill, cramp and general discomfort invade me--feel certain that they have long ago invaded Felicity, although she makes no complaint--and picnic is declared to be at an end. Black-and-white dog remains glued to Vicky's heels, is sternly dealt with by Casabianca, and finally disappears into the bracken, but at intervals during descent of hill, makes dramatic reappearances, leaping up in attitudes reminiscent of ballet-dancing. Owners of dog discovered at foot of hill, large gentleman in brown boots, and very thin woman with spats and eye-glasses.

Vicky is demonstrative with dog, the large gentleman looks touched, and the eye-glasses beg my pardon, but if my little girl has really taken a fancy to the doggie, why, they are looking for a home for him--just off to Zanzibar--otherwise, he will have to be destroyed. I say Thank you, thank you, we really couldn't think of such a thing, and Vicky screams and ejaculates.

The upshot of it all is that we do think of such a thing--Casabianca lets me down badly, and backs up Vicky--the large gentleman says Dog may not be one of these pedigree animals--which I can see for myself he isn't--but has no vice, and thoroughly good-natured and affectionate--and Felicity, at whom I look, nods twice--am reminded of Lord Burleigh, but do not know why--and mutters Oui, oui, pourquoi pas?--which she appears to think will be unintelligible to anyone except herself and me.

Final result is that Vicky, Robin and dog occupy most of the car on the way home, and I try and make up my mind how dog can best be introduced to Robert and Cook.

September 11th.--Decision reached--but cannot say how--that dog is to be kept, and that his name is to be Kolynos.

September 12th.--All is overshadowed by National Crisis, and terrific pronouncements regarding income-tax and need for economy. Our Vicar goes so far as to talk about the Pound from the pulpit, and Robert is asked by Felicity to explain the whole thing to her after dinner--which he very wisely refuses to do.

We lunch with the Frobishers, who are depressed, and say that the wages of everyone on the Estate will have to be reduced by ten per cent. (Query: Why are they to be sympathised with on this account? Am much sorrier for their employés.)

Young Frobisher, who is down from Oxford, says that he has seen it coming for a long while now. (Should like to know why, in that case, he did not warn the neighbourhood.) He undertakes to make all clear--this, once more, at Felicity's request--and involved monologue follows, in which the Pound, as usual, figures extensively. Am absolutely no wiser at the end of it all than I was at the beginning and feel rather inclined to say so, but Lady F. offers me coffee, and asks after children--whom she refers to as "the boy and that dear little Virginia"--and we sink into domesticities and leave the Pound to others. Result is that it overshadows the entire evening and is talked about by Felicity and Robert all the way home in very learned but despondent strain.

(N.B. A very long while since I have heard Robert so eloquent, and am impressed by the fact that it takes a National Crisis to rouse him, and begin to wish that own conversational energies had not been dissipated for years on such utterly unworthy topics as usually call them forth. Can see dim outline of rather powerful article here, or possibly viers fibres more suitable form--but nothing can be done to-night.) Suggest hot milk to Felicity, who looks cold, take infinite trouble to procure this, but saucepan boils over and all is wasted.

September 13th.--Curious and regrettable conviction comes over me that Sunday in the country is entirely intolerable. Cannot, however, do anything about it.

Kolynos chases Helen Wills up small oak-tree, and eats arm and one ear off teddy-bear owned by Vicky. This not a success, and Robert says tersely that if the dog is going to do that kind of thing--and then leaves the sentence unfinished, which alarms us all much more than anything he could have said.

Am absent-minded in Church, but recalled by Robin singing hymn, entirely out of tune, and half a bar in advance of everybody else. Do not like to check evident zeal, and feel that this should come within Casabianca's province, but he takes no notice. (Query: Perhaps he, like Robin, has no ear for music? He invariably whistles out of tune.)

Return to roast beef--underdone--and plates not hot. I say boldly that I think roast beef every Sunday is a mistake--why not chicken, or even mutton? but at this everyone looks aghast, and Robert asks What next, in Heaven's name? so feel it better to abandon subject, and talk about the Pound, now familiar topic in every circle.

General stupor descends upon Robert soon after lunch, and he retires to study with Blackwood's Magazine. Robin reads Punch; Vicky, amidst customary protests, disappears for customary rest; and Casabianca is nowhere to be seen. Have strong suspicion that he has followed Vicky's example.

I tell Felicity that I must write some letters, and she rejoins that so must she, and we talk until twenty minutes to four, and then say that it doesn't really matter, as letters wouldn't have gone till Monday anyhow. (This argument specious at the moment, but has very little substance when looked at in cold blood.)

Chilly supper--only redeeming feature, baked potatoes--concludes evening, together with more talk of the Pound, about which Robert and Casabianca become, later on, technical and masculine, and Felicity and I prove unable to stay the course, and have recourse to piano instead.

Final peak of desolation is attained when Felicity, going to bed, wishes to know why I have so completely given up my music, and whether it isn't a Great Pity?

Point out to her that all wives and mothers always do give up their music, to which she agrees sadly, and we part without enthusiasm.

Should be very sorry to put on record train of thought aroused in me by proceedings of entire day.

September 15th.--End of holidays, as usual, suddenly reveal themselves as being much nearer than anyone had supposed, and Cash's Initials assume extraordinary prominence in scheme of daily life, together with School Lists, new boots for Robin, new everything for Vicky, and tooth-paste for both.

This all dealt with, more or less, after driving Felicity to station, where we all part from her with regret. Train moves out of station just as I realise that egg sandwiches promised her for journey have been forgotten. Am overcome with utterly futile shame and despair, but can do nothing. Children sympathetic, until distracted by man on wheels--Stop me and Buy One--which they do, to the extent of fourpence. Should be prepared to take my oath that far more than fourpenny-worth of ice-cream will subsequently be found in car and on their clothes.

Extraordinarily crowded morning concluded with visit to dentist, who says that Vicky is Coming Along Nicely, and that Robin can be Polished Off Now, and offers, on behalf of myself, to have a look round, to which I agree, with unsatisfactory results. Look at this! says dentist unreasonably. Look at it! Waving in the Wind! Object strongly to this expression, which I consider gross exaggeration, but cannot deny that tooth in question is not all it should be. Much probing and tapping follows, and operator finally puts it to me--on the whole very kindly and with consideration--that this is a Question of Extraction. I resign myself to extraction accordingly, and appoint a date after the children have gone to school.

(Have often wondered to what extent mothers, if left to themselves, would carry universal instinct for putting off everything in the world until after children have gone to school? Feel certain that this law would, if it were possible, embrace everything in life, death itself included.)

It is too late to go home to lunch, and we eat fried fish, chipped potatoes, galantine and banana splits in familiar café.

September 20th.--Suggest to Robert that the moment has now come for making use of Doughty Street flat. I can take Vicky to London, escort her from thence to Mickleham, and then settle down in flat. Settle down what to? says Robert. Writing, I suggest weakly, and seeing Literary Agent. Robert looks unconvinced, but resigned. I make arrangements accordingly.

Aunt Gertrude writes to say that sending a little thing of Vicky's age right away from home is not only unnatural, but absolutely wrong. Have I, she wants to know, any idea of what a childless home will be like? Decide to leave this letter unanswered, but am disgusted to find that I mentally compose at least twelve different replies in the course of the day, each one more sarcastic than the last. Do not commit any of them to paper, but am just as much distracted by them as if I had--and have moments, moreover, of regretting that Aunt Gertrude will never know all the things I might have said.

Vicky, whom I observe anxiously, remains unmoved and cheerful, and refers constantly and pleasantly to this being her Last Evening at home. Moreover, pillow remains bone-dry, and she goes peacefully to sleep rather earlier than usual.

September 22nd.--Robin is taken away by car, and Casabianca escorts Vicky and myself to London, and parts from us at Paddington. I make graceful speech, which I have prepared beforehand, about our gratitude, and hope that he will return to us at Christmas. (Am half inclined to add, if state of the Pound permits--but do not like to.) He says, Not at all, to the first part, and Nothing that he would like better, to the second, and makes a speech on his own account. Vicky embraces him with ardour and at some length, and he departs, and Vicky immediately says Now am I going to school? Nothing is left but to drive with her to Waterloo and thence to Mickleham, where Vicky is charmingly received by Principal, and made over to care of most engaging young creature of seventeen, introduced as Jane. Fearful inclination to tears comes over me, but Principal is tact personified, and provides tea at exactly right moment. She promises, unprompted, to telephone in the morning, and write long letter next day, and Vicky is called to say good-bye, which she does most affectionately, and with undiminished radiance.

September 25th.--Doughty Street.--Quite incredibly, find myself more or less established, and startlingly independent. Flat--once I have bought electric fire, and had it installed by talkative young man with red hair--very comfortable; except for absence of really restful arm-chair, and unfamiliarity of geyser-bath, of which I am terrified. Bathroom is situated on stairs, which are in continual use, and am therefore unable to take bath with door wide open, as I should like to do. Compromise with open window, through which blacks come in, and smell of gas and immense quantities of steam, go out. Remainder of steam has strange property of gathering itself on to the ceiling and there collecting, whence it descends upon my head and shoulders in extraordinarily cold drops. Feel sure that there is scientific, and doubtless interesting, explanation of this minor chemical phenomenon, but cannot at the moment work it out. (N.B. Keep discussion of this problem for suitable occasion, preferably when seated next to distinguished scientist at dinner-party. In the meantime, cower beneath bath towel in farthest corner of bathroom--which is saying very little--but am quite unable to dodge unwanted shower-bath.)

Housekeeper from flat above extremely kind and helpful, and tells me all about arrangements for window-cleaning, collecting of laundry and delivery of milk.

Excellent reports reach me of Vicky at Mickleham--Robin writes--as usual--about unknown boy called Felton who has brought back a new pencil-box this term, and other, equally unknown, boy whose parents have become possessed of house in the New Forest--and Robert sends laconic, but cheerful, account of preparations for Harvest Home supper. Less satisfactory communication arrives from Bank, rather ungenerously pointing out extremely small and recent overdraft. This almost incredible, in view of recent unexpected literary gains, and had felt joyfully certain of never again finding myself in this painful position--but now perceive this to have been wholly unjustifiable optimism. (Material for short philosophic treatise on vanity of human hopes surely indicated here? but on second thoughts, too reminiscent of Mr. Fairchild, so shall leave it alone.)

Write quantities of letters, and am agreeably surprised at immense advantage to be derived from doing so without any interruptions.

September 27th.--Rose telephones to ask if I would like to come to literary evening party, to be given by distinguished novelist whose books are well known to me, and who lives in Bloomsbury. I say Yes, if she is sure it will be All Right. Rose replies Why not, and then adds--distinct afterthought--that I am myself a Literary Asset to society, nowadays. Pause that ensues in conversation makes it painfully evident that both of us know the last statement to be untrue, and I shortly afterwards ring off.

I consider the question of what to wear, and decide that black is dowdy, but green brocade with Ciro pearls will be more or less all right, and shall have to have old white satin shoes recovered to match.

September 28th.--Literary party, to which Rose takes me as promised. Take endless trouble with appearance, and am convinced, before leaving flat, that this has reached very high level indeed, thanks to expensive shampoo-and-set, and moderate use of cosmetics. Am obliged to add, however, that on reaching party and seeing everybody else, at once realise that I am older, less well dressed, and immeasurably plainer than any other woman in the room. (Have frequently observed similar reactions in myself before.)

Rose introduces me to hostess--she looks much as I expected, but photographs which have appeared in Press evidently, and naturally, slightly idealised. Hostess says how glad she is that I was able to come--(Query: Why?)--and is then claimed by other arrivals, to whom she says exactly the same thing, with precisely similar intonation. (Note: Society of fellow-creatures promotes cynicism. Should it be avoided on this account? If so, what becomes of Doughty Street flat?)

Rose says Do I see that man over there? Yes, I do. He has written a book that will, says Rose impressively, undoubtedly be seized before publication and burnt. I enquire how she knows, but she is claimed by an acquaintance and I am left to gaze at the man in silent astonishment and awe. Just as I reach the conclusion that he cannot possibly be more than eighteen years old, I hear a scream--this method of attracting attention absolutely unavoidable, owing to number of people all talking at once--and am confronted by Emma I lay in rose-coloured fishnet, gold lace, jewelled turban and necklace of large barbaric pebbles.

Who, shrieks Emma, would have dreamt of this? and do I see that man over there? He has just finished a book that is to be seized and burnt before publication. A genius, of course, she adds casually, but far in advance of his time. I say Yes, I suppose so, and ask to be told who else is here, and Emma gives me rapid outline of many rather lurid careers, leading me to conclusion that literary ability and domestic success not usually compatible. (Query: Will this invalidate my chances?)

Dear Emma then exclaims that It is Too Bad I should be so utterly Out of It--which I think might have been better worded--and introduces a man to me, who in his turn introduces his wife, very fair and pretty. (Have unworthy spasm of resentment at sight of so much attractiveness, but stifle instantly.) Man offers to get me a drink, I accept, he offers to get his wife one, she agrees, and he struggles away through dense crowd. Wife points out to me young gentleman who has written a book that is to be seized, etc., etc. Am disgusted to hear myself saying in reply Oh really, in tone of intelligent astonishment.

Man returns with two glasses of yellow liquid--mine tastes very nasty, and wife leaves hers unfinished after one sip--and we talk about Income Tax, the Pound, France, and John van Druten, of whom we think well. Rose emerges temporarily from press of distinguished talkers, asks Am I all right, and is submerged again before I can do more than nod. (Implied lie here.) Man and his wife, who do not know anyone present, remain firmly glued to my side, and I to theirs for precisely similar reason. Conversation flags, and my throat feels extremely sore. Impossibility of keeping the Pound out of the conversation more and more apparent, and character of the observations that we make about it distinguished neither for originality nor for sound constructive quality.

Emma recrudesces later, in order to tell me that James--(totally unknown to me) has at last chucked Sylvia--(of whom I have never heard)--and is definitely living with Naomi--(again a complete blank)--who will have to earn enough for both, and for her three children--but James' children by Susan are being looked after by dear Arthur. I say, without conviction, that this at least is a comfort, and Emma--turban now definitely over right eyebrow--vanishes again.

Original couple introduced by Emma still my sole hope of companionship, and am morally certain that I am theirs. Nevertheless am quite unable to contemplate resuming analysis of the Pound, which I see looming ahead, and am seriously thinking of saying that there is a man here whose book is to be seized prior to publication, when Rose intervenes, and proposes departure. Our hostess quite undiscoverable, Emma offers officious and extremely scandalous explanation of this disappearance, and Rose and I are put into taxi by elderly man, unknown to me, but whom I take to be friend of Rose's, until she tells me subsequently that she has never set eyes on him in her life before. I suggest that he may be man-servant hired for the occasion, but Rose says No, more likely a distinguished dramatist from the suburbs.

October 1st.--Direct result of literary party is that I am rung up on telephone by Emma, who says that she did not see anything like enough of me and we must have a long talk, what about dinner together next week in Soho where she knows of a cheap place? (This, surely, rather odd form of invitation?) Am also rung up by Viscountess's secretary, which makes me feel important, and asked to lunch at extremely expensive and fashionable French restaurant. Accept graciously, and spend some time wondering whether circumstances would justify purchase of new hat for the occasion. Effect of new hat on morale very beneficial, as a rule.

Also receive letter--mauve envelope with silver cipher staggers me from the start--which turns out to be from Pamela Pringle, who is mine affectionately as ever, and is so delighted to think of my being in London, and must talk over dear old days, so will I ring her up immediately and suggest something? I do ring her up--although not immediately--and am told that she can just fit me in between massage at four and Bridge at six, if I will come round to her flat in Sloane Street like an angel. This I am willing to do, but make mental reservation to the effect that dear old days had better remain in oblivion until P. P. herself introduces them into conversation, which I feel certain she will do sooner or later.

Proceed in due course to flat in Sloane Street--entrance impressive, with platoons of hall-porters, one of whom takes me up in lift and leaves me in front of bright purple door with antique knocker representing mermaid, which I think unsuitable for London, although perhaps applicable to Pamela's career. Interior of flat entirely furnished with looking-glass tables, black pouffes, and acutely angular blocks of green wood. Am over-awed, and wonder what Our Vicar's Wife would feel about it all--but imagination jibs.

Pamela receives me in small room--more looking-glass, but fewer pouffes, and angular blocks are red with blue zigzags--and startles me by kissing me with utmost effusion. This very kind, and only wish I had been expecting it, as could then have responded better and with less appearance of astonishment amounting to alarm. She invites me to sit on a pouffe and smoke a Russian cigarette, and I do both, and ask after her children. Oh, says Pamela, the children! and begins to cry, but leaves off before I have had time to feel sorry for her, and bursts into long and complicated speech. Life, declares Pamela, is very, very difficult, and she is perfectly certain that I feel, as she does, that nothing in the world matters except Love. Stifle strong inclination to reply that banking account, sound teeth and adequate servants matter a great deal more, and say Yes Yes, and look as intelligently sympathetic as possible.

Pamela then rushes into impassioned speech, and says that It is not her fault that men have always gone mad about her, and no doubt I remember that it has always been the same, ever since she was a mere tot--(do not remember anything of the kind, and if I did, should certainly not say so)--and that after all, divorce is not looked upon as it used to be, and it's always the woman that has to pay the penalty, don't I agree? Feel it unnecessary to make any very definite reply to this, and am in any case not clear as to whether I do agree or not, so again have recourse to air of intelligent understanding, and inarticulate, but I hope expressive, sound. Pamela apparently completely satisfied with this, as she goes on to further revelations to which I listen with eyes nearly dropping out of my head with excitement. Stevenson, Templer-Tate, Pringle, are all referred to, as well as others whose names have not actually been borne by Pamela--but this, according to her own account, her fault rather than theirs. Feel I ought to say something, so enquire tentatively if her first marriage was a happy one--which sounds better than asking if any of her marriages were happy ones. Happy? says Pamela. Good Heavens, what am I talking about? Conclude from this, that it was not a happy one. Then what, I suggest, about Templer-Tate? That, Pamela replies sombrely, was Hell. (Should like to enquire for whom, but do not, naturally, do so.) Next branch of the subject is presumably Pringle, and here I again hesitate, but Pamela takes initiative and long and frightful story is poured out.

Waddell--such is Pringle's Christian name, which rouses in me interesting train of speculative thought as to mentality of his parents--Waddell does not understand his wife. Never has understood her, never possibly could understand her. She is sensitive, affectionate, intelligent in her own way though of course not clever, says Pamela--and really, although she says so herself, remarkably easy to get on with. A Strong Man could have done anything in the world with her. She is like that. The ivy type. Clinging. I nod, to show agreement. Further conversation reveals that she has clung in the wrong directions, and that this has been, and is being, resented by Pringle. Painful domestic imbroglio is unfolded. I say weakly that I am sorry to hear this--which is not true, as I am thoroughly enjoying myself--and ask what about the children? This brings us back to the beginning again, and we traverse much ground that has been gone over before. Bridge at six is apparently forgotten, and feel that it might sound unsympathetic to refer to it, especially when Pamela assures me that she very, very often thinks of Ending it All. Am not sure if she means life altogether, or only life with Pringle--or perhaps just present rather irregular course of conduct?

Telephone-calls five times interrupt us, when Pamela is effusive and excitable to five unknown conversationalists and undertakes to meet someone on Friday at three, to go and see someone else who is being too, too ill in a Nursing Home, and to help somebody else to meet a woman who knows someone who is connected with films.

Finally, take my leave, after being once more embraced by Pamela, and am shot down in lift--full of looking-glass, and am much struck with the inadequacy of my appearance in these surroundings, and feel certain that lift-attendant is also struck by it, although aware that his opinion ought to be matter of complete indifference to me.

Temperature of Sloane Street seems icy after interior of flat, and cold wind causes my nose to turn scarlet and my eyes to water. Fate selects this moment for the emergence of Lady B.--sable furs up to her eyebrows and paint and powder unimpaired--from Truslove and Hanson, to waiting car and chauffeur. She sees me and screams--at which passers-by look at us, astonished--and says Good gracious her, what next? She would as soon have expected to see the geraniums from the garden uprooting themselves from the soil and coming to London. (Can this be subtle allusion to effect of the wind upon my complexion?) I say stiffly that I am staying at My Flat for a week or two. Where? demands Lady B. sceptically--to which I reply, Doughty Street, and she shakes her head and says that conveys nothing. Should like to refer her sharply to Life of Charles Dickens, but before I have time to do so she asks what on earth I am doing in Sloane Street, of all places--I say, spending an hour or two with my old friend Pamela Pringle--(for which I shall later despise myself, as should never have dreamt of referring to her as anything of the kind to anybody else). Oh, that woman, says Lady B., and offers to give me a lift to Brondesbury or wherever-it-is, as her chauffeur is quite brilliant at knowing his way anywhere. Thank her curtly and refuse. We part, and I wait for a 19 bus and wish I'd told Lady B. that I must hurry, or should arrive late for dinner at Apsley House.

October 3rd.--Observe in myself tendency to go further and further in search of suitable cheap restaurants for meals--this not so much from economic considerations, as on extremely unworthy grounds that walking in the streets amuses me. (Cannot for one instant contemplate even remote possibility of Lady B.'s ever coming to hear of this, and do not even feel disposed to discuss it with Robert. Am, moreover, perfectly well aware that I have come to London to Write, and not to amuse myself.)

Determination to curb this spirit causes me to lunch at small establishment in Theobald's Road, completely filled by hatless young women with cigarettes, one old lady with revolting little dog that growls at everyone, and small, pale youth who eats custard, and reads mysterious periodical entitled Helping Hands.

Solitary waitress looks harassed, and tells me--unsolicited--that she has only a small portion of The Cold left. I say Very Well, and The Cold, after long interval, appears, and turns out to be pork. Should like to ask for a potato, but waitress avoids me, and I go without.

Hatless young women all drink coffee in immense quantities, and I feel this is literary, and should like to do the same, but for cast-iron conviction that coffee will be nasty. Am also quite unattracted by custard, and finally ask for A Bun, please, and waitress--more harassed than ever--enquires in return if I mind the one in the window? I recklessly say No, if it hasn't been there too long, and waitress says Oh, not very, and seems relieved.

Singular conversation between hatless young women engages my attention, and distracts me from rather severe struggle with the bun. My neighbours discuss Life, and the youngest of them remarks that Perversion has practically gone out altogether now. The others seem to view this as pessimistic, and assure her encouragingly that, so far, nothing else has been found to take its place. One of them adjures her to Look at Sprott and Nash--which sounds like suburban grocers, but is, I think, mutual friends. Everybody says Oh, of course, to Sprott and Nash, and seems relieved. Someone tells a story about a very old man, which I try without success to overhear, and someone else remarks disapprovingly that he can't know much about it, really, as he's well over seventy and it only came into fashion a year or two ago. Conversation then becomes inconsequent, and veers about between Cavalcade, methods of hair-dressing, dog-breeding, and man called William--but with tendency to revert at intervals to Sprott and Nash.

Finish bun with great difficulty, pay tenpence for entire meal, leave twopence for waitress, and take my departure. Decide quite definitely that this, even in the cause of economy, wasn't worth it. Remember with immense satisfaction that I lunch to-morrow at Boulestin's with charming Viscountess, and indulge in reflections concerning strange contrasts offered by Life: cold pork and stale bun in Theobald's Road on Tuesday, and lobster and poire Hélène--(I hope)--at Boulestin's on Wednesday. Hope and believe with all my heart that similar startling, dissimilarity will be observable in nature of company and conversation.

Decide to spend afternoon in writing and devote much time to sharpening pencils, looking for india-rubber--finally discovered inside small cavity of gramophone, intended for gramophone needles. This starts train of thought concerning whereabouts of gramophone needles, am impelled to search for them, and am eventually dumbfounded at finding them in a match-box, on shelf of kitchen cupboard. (Vague, but unpleasant, flight of fancy here, beginning with Vicky searching for biscuits in insufficient light, and ending in Coroner's Court and vote of severe censure passed--rightly--by Jury.)

(Query: Does not imagination, although in many ways a Blessing, sometimes carry its possessor too far? Answer emphatically Yes.) Bell rings, and I open door to exhausted-seeming woman, who says she isn't going to disturb me--which she has already done--but do I know about the new electric cleaner? I feel sorry for her, and feel that if I turn her away she will very likely break down altogether, so hear about new electric cleaner, and engage, reluctantly, to let it come and demonstrate its powers to-morrow morning. Woman says that I shall never regret it--which is untrue, as I am regretting it already--and passes out of my life.

Second interruption takes place when man--says he is Unemployed--comes to the door with a Poem, which he says he is selling. I buy the Poem for two shillings, which I know is weak, and say that he really must not send anyone else as I cannot afford it. He assures me that he never will, and goes.

Bell rings again, and fails to leave off. I am filled with horror, and look up at it--inaccessible position, and nothing to be seen except two mysterious little jam-jars and some wires. Climb on a chair to investigate, then fear electrocution and climb down again without having done anything. Housekeeper from upstairs rushes down, and unknown females from basement rush up, and we all look at the ceiling and say Better fetch a Man. This is eventually done, and I meditate ironical article on Feminism, while bell rings on madly. Man, however, arrives, says Ah, yes, he thought as much, and at once reduces bell to order, apparently by sheer power of masculinity.

Am annoyed, and cannot settle down to anything.

October 7th.--Extraordinary behaviour of dear Rose, with whom I am engaged--and have been for days past--to go and have supper tonight. Just as I am trying to decide whether bus to Portland Street or tube to Oxford Circus will be preferable, I am called up on telephone by Rose's married niece, who lives in Hertfordshire, and is young and modern, to say that speaker for her Women's Institute to-night has failed, and that Rose, on being appealed to, has at once suggested my name and expressed complete willingness to dispense with my society for the evening. Utter impossibility of pleading previous engagement is obvious; I contemplate for an instant saying that I have influenza, but remember in time that niece, very intelligently, started the conversation by asking how I was, and that I replied Splendid, thanks--and there is nothing for it but to agree.

(Query: Should much like to know if it was for this that I left Devonshire.)

Think out several short, but sharply worded, letters to Rose, but time fails; I can only put brush and comb, slippers, sponge, three books, pyjamas and hot-water bottle into case--discover later that I have forgotten powder-puff, and am very angry, but to no avail--and repair by train to Hertfordshire.

Spend most of journey in remembering all that I know of Rose's niece, which is that she is well under thirty, pretty, talented, tremendous social success, amazingly good at games, dancing, and--I think--everything else in the world, and married to brilliantly clever young man who is said to have Made Himself a Name, though cannot at the moment recollect how.

Have strong impulse to turn straight round and go home again, sooner than confront so much efficiency, but non-stop train renders this course impracticable.

Niece meets me--clothes immensely superior to anything that I ever have had, or shall have--is charming, expresses gratitude, and asks what I am going to speak about. I reply, Amateur Theatricals. Excellent, of course, she says unconvincingly, and adds that the Institute has a large Dramatic Society already, that they are regularly produced by well-known professional actor, husband of Vice-President, and were very well placed in recent village-drama competition, open to all England.

At this I naturally wilt altogether, and say Then perhaps better talk about books or something--which sounds weak, even as I say it, and am convinced that niece feels the same, though she remains imperturbably charming. She drives competently through the night, negotiates awkward entrance to garage equally well, extracts my bag and says that It is Heavy--which is undeniable, and is owing to books, but cannot say so, as it would look as though I thought her house likely to be inadequately supplied--and conducts me into perfectly delightful, entirely modern, house, which I feel certain--rightly, I discover later--has every newest labour-saving device ever invented.

Bathroom especially--(all appears to be solid marble, black-and-white tiles, and dazzling polish)--impresses me immeasurably. Think regretfully, but with undiminished affection, of extremely inferior edition at home--paint peeling in several directions, brass taps turning green at intervals until treated by housemaid, and irregular collection of home-made brackets on walls, bearing terrific accumulation of half-empty bottles, tins of talcum powder and packets of Lux.

Niece shows me her children--charming small boy, angelic baby--both, needless to say, have curls. She asks civilly about Robin and Vicky, and I can think of nothing whatever to the credit of either, so merely reply that they are at school.

N.B. Victorian theory as to maternal pride now utterly discredited. Affection, yes. Pride, no.

We have dinner--niece has changed into blue frock which suits her and is, of course, exactly right for the occasion. I do the best I can with old red dress and small red cap that succeeds in being thoroughly unbecoming without looking in the least up to date, and endeavour to make wretched little compact from bag do duty for missing powder-puff. Results not good.

We have a meal, am introduced to husband--also young--and we talk about Rose, mutual friends, Time and Tide and Electrolux cleaners.

Evening at Institute reasonably successful--am much impressed by further display of efficiency from niece, as President--I speak about Books, and obtain laughs by introduction of three entirely irrelevant anecdotes, am introduced to felt hat and fur coat, felt hat and blue jumper, felt hat and tweeds, and so on. Names of all alike remain impenetrably mysterious, as mine no doubt to them.

(Flight of fancy here as to whether this deplorable, but customary, state of affairs is in reality unavoidable? Theory exists that it has been completely overcome in America, where introductions always entirely audible and frequently accompanied by short biographical sketch. Should like to go to America.)

Niece asks kindly if I am tired. I say No not at all, which is a lie, and she presently takes me home and I go to bed. Spare-room admirable in every respect, but no waste-paper basket. This solitary flaw in general perfection a positive relief.

October 8th.--All endeavours to communicate with Rose by telephone foiled, as her housekeeper invariably answers, and says that she is Out. Can quite understand this. Resolve that dignified course is to take no further steps, and leave any advances to Rose.

This resolution sets up serious conflict later in day, when I lunch with Viscountess, originally met as Rose's friend, as she does nothing but talk of her with great enthusiasm, and I am torn between natural inclination to respond and sense of definite grievance at Rose's present behaviour.

Lunch otherwise highly successful. Have not bought new hat, which is as well, as Viscountess removes hers at an early stage, and is evidently quite indifferent to millinery.

October 10th.--Am exercised over minor domestic problem, of peculiarly prosaic description, centering round collection of Dust-bins in small, so-called back garden of Doughty Street flat. All these dust-bins invariably brim-full, and am convinced that contents of alien waste-paper baskets contribute constantly to mine, as have no recollection at all of banana-skin, broken blue-and-white saucer, torn fragments of Police-Court Gazette, or small, rusty tin kettle riddled with holes.

Contemplate these phenomena with great dislike, but cannot bring myself to remove them, so poke my contribution down with handle of feather-duster, and retire.

October 13th.--Call upon Rose, in rather unusual frame of mind which suddenly descends upon me after lunch--cannot at all say why--impelling me to demand explanation of strange behaviour last week.

Rose at home, and says How nice to see me, which takes the wind out of my sails, but I rally, and say firmly that That is All Very Well, but what about that evening at the Women's Institute? At this Rose, though holding her ground, blanches perceptibly, and tells me to sit down quietly and explain what I mean. Am very angry at quietly, which sounds as if I usually smashed up all the furniture, and reply--rather scathingly--that I will do my best not to rouse the neighbourhood. Unfortunately, rather unguarded movement of annoyance results in upsetting of small table, idiotically loaded with weighty books, insecurely fastened box of cigarettes, and two ash-trays. We collect them again in silence--cigarettes particularly elusive, and roll to immense distances underneath sofa and behind electric fire--and finally achieve an arm-chair apiece, and glare at one another across expanse of Persian rug.

Am astonished that Rose is able to look me in the face at all, and say so, and long and painful conversation ensues, revealing curious inability on both our parts to keep to main issue. Should be sorry to recall in any detail exact number and nature of utterly irrelevant observations exchanged, but have distinct recollection that Rose asserts at various times that: (a) If I had been properly psycho-analysed years ago, I should realise that my mind has never really come to maturity at all. (b) It is perfectly ridiculous to wear shoes with such high heels. (c) Robert is a perfect saint and has a lot to put up with. (d) No one in the world can be readier than Rose is to admit that I can Write, but to talk about The Piano is absurd.

Cannot deny that in return I inform her, in the course of the evening, that: (a) Her best friend could never call Rose tidy--look at the room now! (b) There is a great difference between being merely impulsive, and being utterly and grossly inconsiderate. (c) Having been to America does not, in itself, constitute any claim to infallibility on every question under the sun. (d) Naturally, what's past is past, and I don't want to remind her about the time she lost her temper over those idiotic iris-roots.

Cannot say at what stage I am reduced to tears, but this unfortunately happens, and I explain that it is entirely due to rage, and nothing else. Rose suddenly says that there is nothing like coffee, and rings the bell. Retire to the bathroom in great disorder, mop myself up--tears highly unbecoming, and should much like to know how film-stars do it, usual explanation of Glycerine seems to me quite inadequate--Return to sitting-room and find that Rose, with extraordinary presence of mind, has put on the gramophone. Listen in silence to Rhapsody in Blue, and feel better.

Admirable coffee is brought in, drink some, and feel better still. Am once more enabled to meet Rose's eye, which now indicates contrition, and we simultaneously say that this is Perfectly Impossible, and Don't let's quarrel, whatever we do. All is harmony in a moment, and I kiss Rose, and she says that the whole thing was her fault, from start to finish, and I say No, it was mine absolutely, and we both say that we didn't really mean anything we said.

(Cold-blooded and slightly cynical idea crosses my mind later that entire evening has been complete waste of nervous energy, if neither of us meant any of the things we said--but refuse to dwell on this aspect of the case.)

Eventually go home feeling extraordinarily tired. Find letter from Vicky, with small drawing of an elephant, that I think distinctly clever and modernistic, until I read letter and learn that it is A Table, laid for Dinner, also communication from Literary Agent saying how much he looks forward to seeing my new manuscript. (Can only hope that he enjoys the pleasures of anticipation as much as he says, since they are, at present rate of progress, likely to be prolonged.)

Am also confronted by purple envelope and silver cypher, now becoming familiar, and scrawled invitation from Pamela Pringle to lunch at her flat, and meet half a dozen dear friends who simply adore my writing. Am sceptical about this, but shall accept, from degraded motives of curiosity to see the dear friends, and still more degraded motives of economy, leading me to accept a free meal from whatever quarter offered.

October 16th.--Find myself in very singular position as regards the Bank, where distinctly unsympathetic attitude prevails in regard to quite small overdraft. Am interviewed by the Manager, who says he very much regrets that my account at present appears to be absolutely Stationary. I say with some warmth that he cannot regret it nearly as much as I do myself, and dead-lock appears to have been reached. Manager--cannot imagine why he thinks it a good idea--suddenly opens a large file, and reads me out extract from correspondence with very unendearing personality referred to as his Director, instructing him to bring pressure to bear upon this client--(me). I say Well, that's all right, he has brought pressure to bear, so he needn't worry--but perfect understanding fails to establish itself, and we part in gloom.

Idle fantasy of suddenly acquiring several hundreds of thousands of pounds by means of Irish Sweep ticket nearly causes me to be run over by inferior-looking lorry with coal.

October 18th.--Go to Woolworth's to buy paper handkerchiefs--cold definitely impending--and hear excellent sixpenny record, entitled "Around the Corner and Under the Tree", which I buy. Tune completely engaging, and words definitely vulgar, but not without cheap appeal. Something tells me that sooner or later I shall be explaining purchase away by saying that I got it to amuse the children.

(Note: Self-knowledge possibly beneficial, but almost always unpleasant to a degree.)

Determine to stifle impending cold, if only till after Pamela's luncheon-party to-morrow, and take infinite trouble to collect jug, boiling water, small bottle of Friar's Balsam and large bath-towel. All is ruined by one careless movement, which tips jug, Friar's Balsam and hot water down front of my pyjamas. Am definitely scalded--skin breaks in one place and turns scarlet over area of at least six inches--try to show presence of mind and remember that Butter is The Thing, remember that there is no butter in the flat--frantic and irrelevant quotation here, It was the Best butter--remember vaseline, use it recklessly, and retire to bed in considerable pain and with cold unalleviated.

October 19th.--Vagaries of Fate very curious and inexplicable. Why should severe cold in the head assail me exactly when due to lunch with Pamela Pringle in character of reasonably successful authoress, in order to meet unknown gathering of smart Society Women? Answer remains impenetrably mysterious.

Take endless trouble with appearance, decide to wear my Blue, then take it all off again and revert to my Check, but find that this makes me look like a Swiss nursery governess, and return once more to Blue. Regret, not for the first time, that Fur Coat, which constitutes my highest claim to distinction of appearance, will necessarily have to be discarded in hall.

Sloane Street achieved, as usual, via bus No. 19, and I again confront splendours of Pamela's purple front door. Am shown into empty drawing-room, where I meditate in silence on unpleasant, but all-too-applicable, maxim that It is Provincial to Arrive too Early. Presently strange woman in black, with colossal emerald brooch pinned in expensive-looking frills of lace, is shown in, and says How d'y do, very amiably, and we talk about the weather, Gandhi and French poodles. (Why? There are none in the room, and can trace no association of ideas whatsoever.)

Two more strange women in black appear, and I feel that my Blue is becoming conspicuous. All appear to know one another well, and to have met last week at lunch, yesterday evening at Bridge, and this morning at an Art Exhibition: No one makes any reference to Pamela, and grave and unreasonable panic suddenly assails me that I am in wrong flat altogether. Look madly round to see if I can recognise any of the furniture, and woman with osprey and rope of pearls enquires if I am missing that precious horse. I say No, not really--which is purest truth--and wonder if she has gone off her head. Subsequent conversation reveals that horse was made of soapstone.

(Query: What is soapstone? Association here with Lord Darling, but cannot work out in full.)

More and more anxious about non-appearance of Pamela P., especially when three more guests arrive--black two-piece, black coat-and-skirt, and black crêpe-de-chine with orange-varnished nails. (My Blue now definitely revealed as inferior imitation of Joseph's coat, no less, and of very nearly equal antiquity.)

They all call one another by Christian names, and have much to say about mutual friends, none of whom I have ever heard of before. Someone called Goo-goo has had influenza, and while this is being discussed, I am impelled to violent sneezing fit. Everybody looks at me in horror, and conversation suffers severe check.

(Note: Optimistic conviction that two handkerchiefs will last out through one luncheon party utterly unjustified in present circumstances. Never forget this again.)

Door flies open and Pamela Pringle, of whom I have now given up all hope, rushes in, kisses everybody, falls over little dog--which has mysteriously appeared out of the blue and vanishes again after being fallen over--and says Oh do we all know one another, and isn't she a fearfully bad hostess but she simply could not get away from Amédé, who really is a Pet. (Just as I have decided that Amédé is another little dog, it turns out that he is a Hairdresser.)

Lunch is announced, and we all show customary reluctance to walking out of the room in simple and straightforward fashion, and cluster round the threshold with self-depreciating expressions until herded out by Pamela. I find myself sitting next to her--quite undeserved position of distinction, and probably intended for somebody else--with extraordinarily elegant black crêpe-de-chine on other side.

Black crepe-de-chine says that she adored my book, and so did her husband, and her sister-in-law, who is Clever and never says Anything unless she really Means It, thought it quite marvellous. Having got this off her chest, she immediately begins to talk about recent visit of her own to Paris, and am forced to the conclusion that her standards of sincerity must fall definitely below those of unknown sister-in-law.

Try to pretend that I know Paris as well as she does, but can see that she is not in the least taken in by this.

Pamela says Oh, did she see Georges in Paris, and what are the new models like? but crêpe-de-chine shakes her head and says Not out yet, and Georges never will show any Spring things before December, at very earliest--which to me sounds reasonable, but everybody else appears to feel injured about it, and Pamela announces that she sometimes thinks seriously about letting Gaston make for her instead of Georges--which causes frightful sensation. Try my best to look as much startled and horrified as everybody else, which is easy as am certain that I am about to sneeze again--which I do.

(Both handkerchiefs now definitely soaked through and through, and sore will be out on upper lip before day is over.)

Conversation veers about between Paris, weight-reduction--(quite unnecessary, none of them can possibly weigh more than seven stone, if that)--and annexation by someone called Diana of second husband of someone else called Tetsie, which everyone agrees was utterly justified, but no reason definitely given for this, except that Tetsie is a perfect darling, we all know, but no one on earth could possibly call her smartly turned-out.

(Feel that Tetsie and I would have at least one thing in common, which is more than I can say about anybody else in the room--but this frame of mind verging on the sardonic, and not to be encouraged.)

Pamela turns to me just as we embark on entirely admirable coupe Jacques, and talks about books, none of which have been published for more than five minutes and none of which, in consequence, I have as yet read--but feel that I am expected to be on my own ground here, and must--like Mrs. Dombey--make an effort, which I do by the help of remembering Literary Criticisms in Time and Tide's issue of yesterday.

Interesting little problem hovers on threshold of consciousness here: How on earth do Pamela and her friends achieve conversation about books which I am perfectly certain they have none of them read? Answer, at the moment, baffles me completely.

Return to drawing-room ensues; I sneeze again, but discover that extreme left-hand corner of second pocket handkerchief is still comparatively dry, which affords temporary, but distinct, consolation.

On the whole, am definitely relieved when emerald-brooch owner says that It is too, too sad, but she must fly, as she really is responsible for the whole thing, and it can't begin without her--which might mean a new Permanent Wave, or a command performance at Buckingham Palace, but shall never now know which, as she departs without further explanation.

Make very inferior exit of my own, being quite unable to think of any reason for going except that I have been wanting to almost ever since I arrived,--which cannot, naturally, be produced. Pamela declares that having me has been Quite Wonderful, and we part.

Go straight home and to bed, and Housekeeper from upstairs most kindly brings me hot tea and cinnamon, which are far too welcome for me to make enquiry that conscience prompts, as to their rightful ownership.

October 23rd.--Telephone bell rings at extraordinary hour of eleven-eighteen P.M., and extremely agitated voice says Oh is that me, to which I return affirmative answer and rather curt rider to the effect that I have been in bed for some little while. Voice then reveals itself as belonging to Pamela P.--which doesn't surprise me in the least--who is, she says, in great, great trouble, which she cannot possibly explain. (Should much like to ask whether it was worth while getting me out of bed in order to hear that no explanation is available.) But, Pamela asks, will I, whatever happens, swear that she has spent the evening with me, in my flat? If I will not do this, then it is--once more--perfectly impossible to say what will happen. But Pamela knows that I will--I always was a darling--and I couldn't refuse such a tiny, tiny thing, which is simply a question of life and death.

Am utterly stunned by all this, and try to gain time by enquiring weakly if Pamela can by any chance tell me where she really has spent the evening? Realise as soon as I have spoken that this is not a tactful question, and am not surprised when muffled scream vibrates down receiver into my ear. Well, never mind that, then, I say, but just give me some idea as to who is likely to ask me what Pamela's movements have been, and why. Oh, replies Pamela, she is the most absolutely misunderstood woman on earth, and don't I feel that men are simply brutes? There isn't one of them--not one--whom one can trust to be really tolerant and broad-minded and understanding. They only want One Thing.

Feel quite unable to cope with this over telephone wire, and am, moreover, getting cold, and find attention straying towards possibility of reaching switch of electric fire with one hand whilst holding receiver with the other. Flexibility of the human frame very remarkable, but cannot altogether achieve this and very nearly overbalance, but recover in time to hear Pamela saying that if I will do this one thing for her, she will never, never forget it. There isn't anyone else, she adds, whom she could ask. (Am not at all sure if this is any compliment.) Very well, I reply, if asked, I am prepared to say that Pamela spent the evening with me here, but I hope that no one will ask and Pamela must distinctly understand that this is the first and last time I shall ever do anything of the kind. Pamela begins to be effusive, but austere voice from the unseen says that Three Minutes is Up, will we have another Three, to which we both say No simultaneously, and silence abruptly supervenes.

Crawl into bed again feeling exactly as if I had been lashed to an iceberg and then dragged at the cart's tail. Very singular and unpleasant sensation. Spend disturbed and uncomfortable night, evolving distressing chain of circumstances by which I may yet find myself at the Old Bailey committing perjury and--still worse--being found out--and, alternatively, imagining that I hear rings and knocks at front door, heralding arrival of Pamela P.'s husband bent on extracting information concerning his wife's whereabouts.

Wake up, after uneasy dozings, with bad headache, impaired complexion and strong sensation of guilt. Latter affects me to such a degree that am quite startled and conscience-stricken at receiving innocent and childlike letters from Robin and Vicky, and am inclined to write back and say that they ought not to associate with me--but breakfast restores balance, and I resolve to relegate entire episode to oblivion. (Mem.: Vanity of human resolutions exemplified here, as I find myself going over and over telephone conversation all day long, and continually inventing admirable exhortations from myself to Pamela P.)

Robert writes briefly, but adds P.S. Isn't it time that I thought about coming home again? which I think means that he is missing me, and feel slightly exhilarated.

October 25th.--Am taken out to lunch by Literary Agent, which makes me feel important, and celebrated writers are pointed out to me--mostly very disappointing, but must on no account judge by appearances. Literary Agent says Oh, by the way, he has a small cheque for me at the office, shall he send it along? Try to emulate this casualness, and reply Yes, he may as well, and shortly afterwards rush home and write to inform Bank Manager that, reference our recent conversation, he may shortly expect to receive a Remittance--which I think sounds well, and commits me to nothing definite.