Compromise on Grimm’s Fairy Tales, although slightly uneasy as to their being in accordance with best modern ideals. Both children take immense interest in story of highly undesirable person who wins fortune, fame, and beautiful Princess by means of lies, violence, and treachery. Feel sure that this must have disastrous effect on both in years to come.

Our Vicar’s wife calls before Mademoiselle returns. Go down to her, sneezing, and suggest that she had better not stay. She says, much better not, and she won’t keep me a minute. Tells me long story about the Vicar having a stye on one eye. I retaliate with Cook’s sore throat. This leads to draughts, the, heating apparatus in church, and news of Lady Boxe in South of France: The Vicar’s wife has had a picture postcard from her (which she produces from bag), with small cross marking bedroom window of hotel. She says, It’s rather interesting, isn’t it? to which I reply Yes, it is, very, which is not in the least true. (_N.B._ Truth-telling in everyday life extraordinarily difficult. Is this personal, and highly deplorable, idiosyncrasy, or do others suffer in the same way? Have momentary impulse to put this to our, Vicar’s wife, but decide better not.)

How, she says, are the dear children, and how is my husband? I reply suitably, and she tells me about cinnamon, Viapex, gargling with glycerine of thymnol, blackcurrant tea, onion broth, friar’s balsam, linseed poultices, and thermogene wool. I sneeze and say Thank you—thank you very much, a good many times.. She goes, but turns back at the door to tell me about wool next the skin, nasal doucching, and hot milk last thing at night. I say Thank you, again.

On returning to night-nursery, find that Robin has unscrewed top of hot-water bottle in Vicky’s bed, which apparently contained several hundred gallons of tepid water, now distributed through and through pillows, pyjamas, sheets, blankets, and mattresses of both. I ring for Ethel—who helps me to reorganise entire situation and says It’s like a hospital, isn’t it, trays up and down stairs all day long, and all this extra work.

_January 20th.

Take Robin, now completely restored, back to schooll. I ask the Headmaster what he thinks of his progress. The Headmaster answers that the New Buildings will be finished before Easter, and that their numbers are increasing so rapidly that he will probably add on a New Wing next term, and perhaps I saw a letter of his in the _Times_ replying to Dr. Cyril Norwood? Make mental note to the effect that Headmasters are a race apart, and that if parents would remember this, much time could be saved.

Robin and I say good-bye with hideous brightness, and I cry all the way back to the station.

_January 22nd.

Robert startles me at breakfast by asking if my cold—which he has hitherto ignored—is better. I reply that it has gone. Then why, he asks, do I look like that? Refrain from asking like what, as I know only too well. Feel that life is wholly unendurable, and decide madly to get a new hat.

Customary painful situation between Bank and myself necessitates expedient, also customary, of pawning great-aunt’s diamond ring, which I do, under usual conditions, and am greeted as old friend by Plymouth pawnbroker, who says facetiously, And what name will it be _this_ time?

Visit four linen-drapers and try on several dozen hats. Look worse and worse in each one, as hair gets wilder and wilder, and expression paler and more harassed. Decide to get myself shampooed and waved before doing any more, in hopes of improving the position.

Hairdresser’s assistant says, It’s a pity my hair is losing all its colour, and have I ever thought of having it touched up? After long discussion, I do have it touched up, and emerge with mahogany-coloured head. Hairdresser’s assistant says this will wear off “in a few days”. I am very angry, but all to no purpose. Return home in old hat, showing as little hair as possible, and keep it on till dressing time—but cannot hope to conceal my shame at dinner.

_January 23rd.

Mary Kellway telegraphs she is motoring past here this morning, can I give her lunch? Telegraph Yes, delighted, and rush to kitchen. Cook unhelpful and suggests cold beef and beetroot. I say Yes, excellent, unless perhaps roast chicken and bread sauce even better? Cook talks about the oven. Compromise in the end on cutlets and mashed potatoes, as, very luckily, this is the day butcher calls.

Always delighted to see dear Mary—so clever and amusing, and able to write stories, which actually get published and paid for—but very uneasy about colour of my hair, which is not wearing off in the least. Think seriously of keeping a hat on all through lunch, but this, on the whole, would look even more unnatural.