When she cannot write, she plays the organ. Should much like to ask whether she is married—but get no opportunity of asking that or anything else. She tells me about her sales. She tells me about her last book. She tells me about her new one. She says that there are many people here to whom she _must_ speak, and pursues well-known Poet—who does not, however, allow her to catch up with him. Can understand this.

Speeches are made. Am struck, as so often, by the eloquence and profundity of other people, and reflect how sorry I should be to have to make a speech myself, although so often kept awake at night composing wholly admirable addresses to the servants, Lady B., Mademoiselle, and others—which, however, never get delivered.

Move about after dinner, and meet acquaintance whose name I have forgotten, but connect with literature. I ask if he has published anything lately. He says that his work is not, and never can be, for publication. Thought passes through my mind to the effect that this attitude might with advantage be adopted by many others. Do not say so, however, and we talk instead about Rebecca West, the progress of aviation, and the case for and against stag-hunting.

Rose, who has been discussing psychiatry as practised in the U.S.A. with Danish journalist, says Am I ready to go? Distinguished artist who sat opposite me at dinner offers to drive us both home, but his friends intervene. Moreover, acquaintance whose name I have forgotten takes me aside, and assures me that D.A. is quite unfit to take anybody home, and will himself require an escort. Rose and I depart by nearest Tube, as being wiser, if less exalted, procedure.

Sit up till one o’clock discussing our fellow-creatures, with special reference to those seen and heard this evening. Rose says I ought to come to London more often, and suggests that outlook requires broadening.

_January 9th.

Came home yesterday. Robin and Mademoiselle no longer on speaking terms, owing to involved affair centering round a broken window-pane. Vicky, startlingly, tells me in private that she has learnt a new Bad Word, but does not mean to use it. Not now, anyway, she disquietingly adds.

Cook says she hopes I enjoyed my holiday, and it is very quiet in the country. I leave the kitchen before she has time to say more, but am only too well aware that this is not the last of it.

Write grateful letter to Rose, at the same time explaining difficulty of broadening my outlook by further time spent away from home, just at present.

_January 14th.

I have occasion to observe, not for the first time, how extraordinarily plain a cold can make one look, affecting hair, complexion, and features generally, besides nose and upper lip. Cook assures me that colds always run through the house and that she herself has been suffering from sore throat for weeks, but is never one to make a fuss. (Query: Is this meant to imply that similar fortitude should be, but is not, displayed by me?) Mademoiselle says she _hopes_ children will not catch my cold, but that both sneezed this morning. I run short of handkerchiefs.

_January 16th.

We all run short of handkerchiefs.

_January 17th.

Mademoiselle suggests butter-muslin. There is none in the house. I say that I will go out and buy some. Mademoiselle says, “No, the fresh air gives pneumonia.” Feel that I ought to combat this un-British attitude, but lack energy, especially when she adds that she will go herself—”Madame, j’y cours.” She puts on black kid gloves, buttoned boots with pointed tips and high heels, hat with little feather in it, black jacket and several silk neckties, and goes, leaving me to amuse Robin and Vicky, both in bed. Twenty minutes after she has started, I remember it is early-closing day.

Go up to night-nursery and offer to read Lamb’s _Tales from Shakespeare_. Vicky says she prefers _Pip, Squeak, and Wilfred_. Robin says that he would like _Gulliver’s Travels_.