Title: The Diary of a Provincial Lady
Author: E M Delafield
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Title: The Diary of a Provincial Lady
Author: E M Delafield



The Diary of a Provincial Lady
With Illustrations by Arthur Watts
[illustrations appear in the html version]

First published 1930




THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY



_November 7th._--Plant the indoor bulbs. Just as I am in the middle
of them, Lady Boxe calls. I say, untruthfully, how nice to see her, and
beg her to sit down while I just finish the bulbs. Lady B. makes
determined attempt to sit down in armchair where I have already placed
two bulb-bowls and the bag of charcoal, is headed off just in time, and
takes the sofa.

Do I know, she asks, how very late it is for indoor bulbs? September,
really, or even October, is the time. Do I know that the only really
reliable firm for hyacinths is Somebody of Haarlem? Cannot catch the name
of the firm, which is Dutch, but reply Yes, I do know, but think it my
duty to buy Empire products. Feel at the time, and still think, that this
is an excellent reply. Unfortunately Vicky comes into the drawing-room
later and says: "O Mummie, are those the bulbs we got at Woolworths?"

Lady B. stays to tea. (_Mem_.: Bread-and-butter too thick. Speak to
Ethel.) We talk some more about bulbs, the Dutch School of Painting, our
Vicar's wife, sciatica, and _All Quiet on the Western Front_.

(Query: Is it possible to cultivate the art of conversation when living
in the country all the year round?)

Lady B. enquires after the children. Tell her that Robin--whom I refer to
in a detached way as "the boy" so that she shan't think I am foolish
about him--is getting on fairly well at school, and that Mademoiselle
says Vicky is starting a cold.

Do I realise, says Lady B., that the Cold Habit is entirely unnecessary,
and can be avoided by giving the child a nasal douche of salt-and-water
every morning before breakfast? Think of several rather tart and witty
rejoinders to this, but unfortunately not until Lady B.'s Bentley has
taken her away.

Finish the bulbs and put them in the cellar. Feel that after all cellar
is probably draughty, change my mind, and take them all up to the attic.

Cook says something is wrong with the range.


_November 8th._--Robert has looked at the range and says nothing
wrong whatever. Makes unoriginal suggestion about pulling out dampers.
Cook very angry, and will probably give notice. Try to propitiate her by
saying that we are going to Bournemouth for Robin's half-term, and that
will give the household a rest. Cook replies austerely that they will
take the opportunity to do some extra cleaning. Wish I could believe this
was true.

Preparations for Bournemouth rather marred by discovering that Robert, in
bringing down the suit-cases from the attic, has broken three of the
bulb-bowls. Says he understood that I had put them in the cellar, and so
wasn't expecting them.


_November 11th.--Bournemouth._ Find that history, as usual, repeats
itself. Same hotel, same frenzied scurry round the school to find Robin,
same collection of parents, most of them also staying at the hotel.
Discover strong tendency to exchange with fellow-parents exactly the same
remarks as last year, and the year before that. Speak of this to Robert,
who returns no answer. Perhaps he is afraid of repeating himself? This
suggests Query: Does Robert, perhaps, take in what I say even when he
makes no reply?

Find Robin looking thin, and speak to Matron who says brightly, Oh no,
she thinks on the whole he's put _on_ weight this term, and then
begins to talk about the New Buildings. (Query: Why do all schools have
to run up New Buildings about once in every six months?)

Take Robin out. He eats several meals, and a good many sweets. He
produces a friend, and we take both to Corfe Castle. The boys climb,
Robert smokes in silence, and I sit about on stones. Overhear a woman
remark, as she gazes up at half a tower, that has withstood several
centuries, that This looks _fragile_--which strikes me as a singular
choice of adjective. Same woman, climbing over a block of solid masonry,
points out that This has evidently fallen off somewhere.

Take the boys back to the hotel for dinner. Robin says, whilst the friend
is out of hearing: "It's been nice for us, taking out Williams, hasn't
it?" Hastily express appreciation of this privilege.

Robert takes the boys back after dinner, and I sit in hotel lounge with
several other mothers and we all talk about our boys in tones of
disparagement, and about one another's boys with great enthusiasm.

Am asked what I think of _Harriet Hume_ but am unable to say, as I
have not read it. Have a depressed feeling that this is going to be
another case of _Orlando_ about which was perfectly able to talk
most intelligently until I read it, and found myself unfortunately unable
to understand any of it.

Robert comes up very late and says he must have dropped asleep over the
_Times_. (Query: Why come to Bournemouth to do this?)

Postcard by the last post from Lady B. to ask if I have remembered that
there is a Committee Meeting of the Women's Institute on the 14th. Should
not dream of answering this.

_November 12th._--Home yesterday and am struck, as so often before,
by immense accumulation of domestic disasters that always await one after
any absence. Trouble with kitchen range has resulted in no hot water,
also Cook says the mutton has _gone_, and will I speak to the
butcher, there being no excuse weather like this. Vicky's cold, unlike
the mutton, hasn't gone. Mademoiselle says, "Ah, cette petite! Elle ne
sera peut-être pas longtemps pour ce bas monde, madame." Hope that this
is only her Latin way of dramatising the situation.

Robert reads the _Times_ after dinner, and goes to sleep.

_November 13th._--Interesting, but disconcerting, train of thought
started by prolonged discussion with Vicky as to the existence or
otherwise of a locality which she refers to throughout as H.E.L. Am
determined to be a modern parent, and assure her that there is not, never
has been, and never could be, such a place. Vicky maintains that there
_is_, and refers me to the Bible. I become more modern than ever,
and tell her that theories of eternal punishment were invented to
frighten people. Vicky replies indignantly that they don't frighten her
in the least, she _likes_ to think about H.E.L. Feel that deadlock
has been reached, and can only leave her to her singular method of
enjoying herself.

(Query: Are modern children going to revolt against being modern, and if
so, what form will reaction of modern parents take?)

Much worried by letter from the Bank to say that my account is overdrawn
to the extent of Eight Pounds, four shillings, and fourpence. Cannot
understand this, as was convinced that I still had credit balance of Two
Pounds, seven shillings, and sixpence. Annoyed to find that my accounts,
contents of cash-box, and counterfoils in cheque-book, do not tally.
(_Mem_.: Find envelope on which I jotted down Bournemouth expenses,
also little piece of paper (probably last leaf of grocer's book) with
note about cash payment to sweep. This may clear things up.)

Take a look at bulb-bowls on returning suit-case to attic, and am
inclined to think it looks as though the cat had been up here. If so,
this will be the last straw. Shall tell Lady Boxe that I sent all my
bulbs to a sick friend in a nursing-home.

_November 14th._--Arrival of Book of the Month choice, and am
disappointed. History of a place I am not interested in, by an author I
do not like. Put it back into its wrapper again and make fresh choice
from Recommended List. Find, on reading small literary bulletin enclosed
with book, that exactly this course of procedure has been anticipated,
and that it is described as being "the mistake of a lifetime". Am much
annoyed, although not so much at having made (possibly) mistake of a
lifetime, as at depressing thought of our all being so much alike that
intelligent writers can apparently predict our behaviour with perfect
accuracy.

Decide not to mention any of this to Lady B., always so tiresomely
superior about Book of the Month as it is, taking up attitude that she
does not require to be told what to read. (Should like to think of good
repartee to this.)

Letter by second post from my dear old school-friend Cissie Crabbe,
asking if she may come here for two nights or so on her way to Norwich.
(Query: Why Norwich? Am surprised to realise that anybody ever goes to,
lives at, or comes from, Norwich, but quite see that this is unreasonable
of me. Remind myself how very little one knows of the England one lives
in, which vaguely suggests a quotation. This, however, does not
materialise.)

Many years since we last met, writes Cissie, and she expects we have both
_changed_ a good deal. P.S. Do I remember the dear old pond, and the
day of the Spanish Arrowroot. Can recall, after some thought, dear old
_pond_, at bottom of Cissie's father's garden, but am completely
baffled by Spanish Arrowroot. (Query: Could this be one of the Sherlock
Holmes stories? Sounds like it.)

Reply that we shall be delighted to see her, and what a lot we shall have
to talk about, after all these years! (This, I find on reflection, is not
true, but cannot re-write letter on that account.) Ignore Spanish
Arrowroot altogether.

Robert, when I tell him about dear old school-friend's impending arrival,
does not seem pleased. Asks what we are expected to _do_ with her. I
suggest showing her the garden, and remember too late that this is hardly
the right time of the year. At any rate, I say, it will be nice to talk
over old times--(which reminds me of the Spanish Arrowroot reference
still unfathomed).

Speak to Ethel about the spare room, and am much annoyed to find that one
blue candlestick has been broken, and the bedside rug has gone to the
cleaners, and cannot be retrieved in time. Take away bedside rug from
Robert's dressing-room, and put it in spare room instead, hoping he will
not notice its absence.

_November 15th._--Robert does notice absence of rug, and says he
must have it back again. Return it to dressing-room and take small and
inferior dyed mat from the night-nursery to put in spare room.
Mademoiselle is hurt about this and says to Vicky, who repeats it to me,
that in this country she finds herself treated like a worm.

_November 17th._--Dear old school-friend Cissie Crabbe due by the
three o'clock train. On telling Robert this, he says it is most
inconvenient to meet her, owing to Vestry Meeting, but eventually agrees
to abandon Vestry Meeting. Am touched. Unfortunately, just after he has
started, telegram arrives to say that dear old school-friend has missed
the connection and will not arrive until seven o'clock. This means
putting off dinner till eight, which Cook won't like. Cannot send message
to kitchen by Ethel, as it is her afternoon out, so am obliged to tell
Cook myself. She is not pleased. Robert returns from station, not pleased
either. Mademoiselle, quite inexplicably, says, "Il ne manquait que ca!"
(This comment wholly unjustifiable, as non-appearance of Cissie Crabbe
cannot concern her in any way. Have often thought that the French are
tactless.)

Ethel returns, ten minutes late, and says Shall she light fire in spare
room? I say No, it is not cold enough--but really mean that Cissie is no
longer, in my opinion, deserving of luxuries. Subsequently feel this to
be unworthy attitude, and light fire myself. It smokes.

Robert calls up to know What is that Smoke? I call down that It is
Nothing. Robert comes up and opens the window and shuts the door and says
It will Go all right Now. Do not like to point out that the open window
will make the room cold.

Play Ludo with Vicky in drawing-room.

Robert reads the _Times_ and goes to sleep, but wakes in time to
make second expedition to the station. Thankful to say that this time he
returns with Cissie Crabbe, who has put on weight, and says several times
that she supposes we have both _changed_ a good deal, which I
consider unnecessary.

Take her upstairs--spare room like an icehouse, owing to open window, and
fire still smoking, though less--She says room is delightful, and I leave
her, begging her to ask for anything she wants--(_Mem_.: tell Ethel
she _must_ answer spare room bell if it rings--Hope it won't.)

Ask Robert while dressing for dinner what he thinks of Cissie. He says he
has not known her long enough to judge. Ask if he thinks her
good-looking. He says he has not thought about it. Ask what they talked
about on the way from the station. He says he does not remember.

_November 19th._--Last two days very, very trying, owing to quite
unexpected discovery that Cissie Crabbe is strictly on a diet. This
causes Robert to take a dislike to her. Utter impossibility of obtaining
lentils or lemons at short notice makes housekeeping unduly difficult.
Mademoiselle in the middle of lunch insists on discussing diet question,
and several times exclaims: "Ah, mon doux St. Joseph!" which I consider
profane, and beg her never to repeat.

Consult Cissie about the bulbs, which look very much as if the mice had
been at them. She says: Unlimited Watering, and tells me about her own
bulbs at Norwich. Am discouraged.

Administer Unlimited Water to the bulbs (some of which goes through the
attic floor on to the landing below), and move half of them down to the
cellar, as Cissie Crabbe says attic is airless.

Our Vicar's wife calls this afternoon. Says she once knew someone who had
relations living near Norwich, but cannot remember their name. Cissie
Crabbe replies that very likely if we knew their name we might find she'd
heard of them, or even _met_ them. We agree that the world is a
small place. Talk about the Riviera, the new waist-line, choir-practice,
the servant question, and Ramsay MacDonald.

_November 22nd._--Cissie Crabbe leaves. Begs me in the kindest way
to stay with her in Norwich (where she has already told me that she lives
in a bed-sitting-room with two cats, and cooks her own lentils on a
gas-ring). I say Yes, I should love to. We part effusively.

Spend entire morning writing the letters I have had to leave unanswered
during Cissie's visit.

Invitation from Lady Boxe to us to dine and meet distinguished literary
friends staying with her, one of whom is the author of _Symphony in
Three Sexes_. Hesitate to write back and say that I have never heard
of _Symphony in Three Sexes_, so merely accept. Ask for _Symphony
in Three Sexes_ at the library, although doubtfully. Doubt more than
justified by tone in which Mr. Jones replies that it is not in stock, and
never has been.

Ask Robert whether he thinks I had better wear my Blue or my
Black-and-gold at Lady B.'s. He says that either will do. Ask if he can
remember which one I wore last time. He cannot. Mademoiselle says it was
the Blue, and offers to make slight alterations to Black-and-gold which
will, she says, render it unrecognisable. I accept, and she cuts large
pieces out of the back of it. I say: "Pas trop décolletée," and she
replies intelligently: "Je comprends, Madame ne desire pas se voir nue au
salon."

(Query: Have not the French sometimes a very strange way of expressing
themselves, and will this react unfavourably on Vicky?)

Tell Robert about the distinguished literary friends, but do not mention
_Symphony in Three Sexes_. He makes no answer.

Have absolutely decided that if Lady B. should introduce us to
distinguished literary friends, or anyone else, as Our Agent, and Our
Agent's Wife, I shall at once leave the house.

Tell Robert this. He says nothing. (_Mem_.: Put evening shoes out of
window to see if fresh air will remove smell of petrol.)

_November 25th._--Go and get hair cut and have manicure in the
morning, in honour of Lady B.'s dinner party. Should like new pair of
evening stockings, but depressing communication from Bank, still
maintaining that I am overdrawn, prevents this, also rather unpleasantly
worded letter from Messrs. Frippy and Coleman requesting payment of
overdue account by return of post. Think better not to mention this to
Robert, as bill for coke arrived yesterday, also reminder that Rates are
much overdue, therefore write civilly to Messrs. F. and C. to the effect
that cheque follows in a few days. (Hope they may think I have
temporarily mislaid cheque-book.)

Black-and-gold as rearranged by Mademoiselle very satisfactory, but am
obliged to do my hair five times owing to wave having been badly set.
Robert unfortunately comes in just as I am using bran-new and expensive
lip-stick, and objects strongly to result.

(Query: If Robert could be induced to go to London rather oftener, would
he perhaps take broader view of these things?)

Am convinced we are going to be late, as Robert has trouble in getting
car to start, but he refuses to be agitated. Am bound to add that
subsequent events justify this attitude, as we arrive before anybody
else, also before Lady B. is down. Count at least a dozen Roman hyacinths
growing in bowls all over the drawing-room. (Probably grown by one of the
gardeners, whatever Lady B. may say. Resolve not to comment on them in
any way, but am conscious that this is slightly ungenerous.)

Lady B. comes down wearing silver lace frock that nearly touches the
floor all round, and has new waist-line. This may or not be becoming, but
has effect of making everybody else's frock look out-of-date.

Nine other people present besides ourselves, most of them staying in
house. Nobody is introduced. Decide that a lady in what looks like blue
tapestry is probably responsible for _Symphony in Three Sexes_.

Just as dinner is announced Lady B. murmurs to me: "I've put you next to
Sir William. He's interested in _water-supplies_, you know, and I
thought you'd like to talk to him about local conditions."

Find, to my surprise, that Sir W. and I embark almost at once on the
subject of Birth Control. Why or how this topic presents itself cannot
say at all, but greatly prefer it to water-supplies. On the other side of
the table, Robert is sitting next to _Symphony in Three Sexes_. Hope
he is enjoying himself.

Conversation becomes general. Everybody (except Robert) talks about
books. We all say (a) that we have read _The Good Companions_, (b)
that it is a very _long_ book, (c) that it was chosen by the Book of
the Month Club in America and must be having immense sales, and (d) that
American sales are What Really Count. We then turn to _High Wind in
Jamaica_ and say (a) that it is quite a short book, (b) that we
hated--or, alternatively, adored--it, and (c) that it Really _Is_
exactly _Like_ Children. A small minority here surges into being,
and maintains No, they Cannot Believe that any children in the World
wouldn't ever have _noticed_ that John wasn't there any more. They
can swallow everything else, they say, but not _that_. Discussion
very active indeed. I talk to pale young man with horn-rimmed glasses,
sitting at my left-hand, about Jamaica, where neither of us has ever
been. This leads--but cannot say how--to stag-hunting, and eventually to
homeopathy. (_Mem_.: Interesting, if time permitted, to trace train
of thought leading on from one topic to another. Second, and most
disquieting idea: perhaps no such train of thought exists.) Just as we
reach interchange of opinions about growing cucumbers under glass, Lady
B. gets up.

Go into the drawing-room, and all exclaim how nice it is to see the fire.
Room very cold. (Query: Is this good for the bulbs?) Lady in blue
tapestry takes down her hair, which she says she is growing, and puts it
up again. We all begin to talk about hair. Depressed to find that
everybody in the world, except apparently myself, has grown, or is
growing, long hair again. Lady B. says that Nowadays, there Isn't a
Shingled Head to be seen _anywhere_, either in London, Paris, or New
York. Nonsense.

Discover, in the course of the evening, that the blue tapestry has
nothing whatever to do with literature, but is a Government Sanitary
Inspector, and that _Symphony in Three Sexes_ was written by pale
young man with glasses. Lady B. says, Did I get him on to the subject of
_perversion_, as he is always so amusing about it? I reply
evasively.

Men come in, and all herded into billiard room (just as drawing-room
seems to be getting slightly warmer) where Lady B. inaugurates unpleasant
game of skill with billiard balls, involving possession of a Straight
Eye, which most of us do not possess. Robert does well at this. Am
thrilled, and feel it to be more satisfactory way of acquiring
distinction than even authorship of _Symphony in Three Sexes_.

Congratulate Robert on the way home, but he makes no reply.

_November 26th._--Robert says at breakfast that he thinks we are no
longer young enough for late nights.

Frippy and Coleman regret that they can no longer allow account to stand
over, but must request favour of a cheque by return, or will be
compelled, with utmost regret, to take Further Steps. Have written to
Bank to transfer Six Pounds, thirteen shillings, and tenpence from
Deposit Account to Current. (This leaves Three Pounds, seven shillings,
and twopence, to keep Deposit Account open.) Decide to put off paying
milk book till next month, and to let cleaners have something on account
instead of full settlement. This enables me to send F. and C. cheque,
post-dated Dec. 1st, when allowance becomes due. Financial instability
very trying.

_November 28th._--Receipt from F. and C. assuring me of attention to
my future wishes--but evidently far from realising magnitude of effort
involved in setting myself straight with them.

_December 1st._--Cable from dear Rose saying she lands at Tilbury on
10th. Cable back welcome, and will meet her Tilbury, Toth. Tell Vicky
that her godmother, my dearest friend, is returning home after three
years in America. Vicky says: "Oh, will she have a present for me?" Am
disgusted with her mercenary attitude and complain to Mademoiselle, who
replies: "Si la Sainte Vierge revenait sur la terre, madame, ce serait
notre petite Vicky." Do not at all agree with this. Moreover, in other
moods Mademoiselle first person to refer to Vicky as "ce petit demon
enrage".

(Query: Are the Latin races always as sincere as one would wish them to
be?)

_December 3rd._--Radio from dear Rose, landing Plymouth 8th after
all. Send return message, renewed welcomes, and will meet her Plymouth.

Robert adopts unsympathetic attitude and says This is Waste of Time and
Money. Do not know if he means cables, or journey to meet ship, but feel
sure better not to enquire. Shall go to Plymouth on 7th. (_Mem_.:
Pay grocer's book before I go, and tell him last lot of gingernuts were
soft. Find out first if Ethel kept tin properly shut.)

_December 8th.--Plymouth._ Arrived last night, terrific storm, ship
delayed. Much distressed at thought of Rose, probably suffering severe
sea-sickness. Wind howls round hotel, which shakes, rain lashes against
window-pane all night. Do not like my room and have unpleasant idea that
someone may have committed a murder in it. Mysterious door in corner
which I feel conceals a corpse. Remember all the stories I have read to
this effect, and cannot, sleep. Finally open mysterious door and find
large cupboard, but no corpse. Go back to bed again.

Storm worse than ever in the morning, am still more distressed at thought
of Rose, who will probably have to be carried off ship in state of
collapse.

Go round to Shipping Office and am told to be on docks at ten o'clock.
Having had previous experience of this, take fur coat, camp-stool, and
copy of _American Tragedy_ as being longest book I can find, and
camp myself on docks. Rain stops. Other people turn up and look enviously
at camp-stool. Very old lady in black totters up and down till I feel
guilty, and offer to give up camp-stool to her. She replies: "Thank you,
thank you, but my Daimler is outside, and I can sit in that when I wish
to do so."

Return to _American Tragedy_ feeling discouraged.

Find _American Tragedy_ a little oppressive, but read on and on for
about two hours when policeman informs me that tender is about to start
for ship, if I wish to go on board. Remove self, camp-stool, and
_American Tragedy_ to tender. Read for forty minutes. (Mem.: Ask
Rose if American life is really like that.)

Very, very unpleasant half-hour follows. Camp-stool shows tendency to
slide about all over the place, and am obliged to abandon _American
Tragedy_ for the time being.

Numbers of men of seafaring aspect walk about and look at me. One of them
asks Am I a good sailor? No, I am not. Presently ship appears, apparently
suddenly rising up from the middle of the waves, and ropes are dangled in
every direction. Just as I catch sight of Rose, tender is carried away
from ship's side by colossal waves.

Consoled by reflection that Rose is evidently not going to require
carrying on shore, but presently begin to feel that boot, as they say,
may be on the other leg.

More waves, more ropes, and tremendous general activity.

I return to camp-stool, but have no strength left to cope with
_American Tragedy_. A man in oilskins tells me I am In the Way
there, Miss.

Remove myself, camp-stool, and _American Tragedy_ to another corner.
A man in sea-boots says that If I stay there, I may get Badly Knocked
About.

Renewed déménagement of self, camp-stool, _American Tragedy_. Am
slightly comforted by having been called "Miss".

Catch glimpse of Rose from strange angles as tender heaves up and down.
Gangway eventually materialises, and self, camp-stool, and _American
Tragedy_ achieve the ship. Realise too late that camp-stool and
_American Tragedy_ might equally well have remained where they were.

Dear Rose most appreciative of effort involved by coming to meet her, but
declares herself perfectly good sailor, and slept all through last
night's storm. Try hard not to feel unjustly injured about this.

_December 9th._--Rose staying here two days before going on to
London. Says All American houses are Always Warm, which annoys Robert. He
says in return that All American houses are Grossly Overheated and
Entirely Airless. Impossible not to feel that this would carry more
weight if Robert had ever been to America. Rose also very insistent about
efficiency of American Telephone Service, and inclined to ask for glasses
of cold water at breakfast time--which Robert does not approve of.

Otherwise dear Rose entirely unchanged and offers to put me up in her
West-End flat as often as I like to come to London. Accept gratefully.
(_N.B._ How very different to old school-friend Cissie Crabbe, with
bed-sitting-room and gas-ring in Norwich! But should not like to think
myself in any way a snob.)

On Rose's advice, bring bulb-bowls up from cellar and put them in
drawing-room. Several of them perfectly visible, but somehow do not look
entirely healthy. Rose thinks too much watering. If so, Cissie Crabbe
entirely to blame. (_Mem_.: Either move bulb-bowls upstairs, or tell
Ethel to show Lady Boxe into morning-room, if she calls. Cannot possibly
enter into further discussion with her concerning bulbs.)

_December 10th._--Robert, this morning, complains of insufficient
breakfast. Cannot feel that porridge, scrambled eggs, toast, marmalade,
scones, brown bread, and coffee give adequate grounds for this, but admit
that porridge is slightly burnt. How impossible ever to encounter burnt
porridge without vivid recollections of Jane Eyre at Lowood School, say I
parenthetically! This literary allusion not a success. Robert suggests
ringing for Cook, and have greatest difficulty in persuading him that
this course utterly disastrous.

Eventually go myself to kitchen, in ordinary course of events, and
approach subject of burnt porridge circuitously and with utmost care.
Cook replies, as I expected, with expressions of astonishment and
incredulity, coupled with assurances that kitchen range is again at
fault. She also says that new double-saucepan, fish-kettle, and nursery
tea-cups are urgently required. Make enquiries regarding recently
purchased nursery tea-set and am shown one handle without cup, saucer in
three pieces, and cup from which large semicircle has apparently been
bitten. Feel that Mademoiselle will be hurt if I pursue enquiries
further. (Note: Extreme sensibility of the French sometimes makes them
difficult to deal with.)

Read Life and Letters of distinguished woman recently dead, and am
struck, as so often, by difference between her correspondence and that of
less distinguished women. Immense and affectionate letters from
celebrities on every other page, epigrammatic notes from literary and
political acquaintances, poetical assurances of affection and admiration
from husband, and even infant children. Try to imagine Robert writing in
similar strain in the (improbable) event of my attaining celebrity, but
fail. Dear Vicky equally unlikely to commit her feelings (if any) to
paper.

Robin's letter arrives by second post, and am delighted to have it as
ever, but cannot feel that laconic information about boy--unknown to
me--called Baggs, having been swished, and Mr. Gompshaw, visiting master,
being kept away by Sore Throat--is on anything like equal footing with
lengthy and picturesque epistles received almost daily by subject of
biography, whenever absent from home.

Remainder of mail consists of one bill from chemist--(_Mem_.: Ask
Mademoiselle why _two_ tubes of Gibbs' Toothpaste within ten
days)--illiterate postcard from piano-tuner, announcing visit to-morrow,
and circular concerning True Temperance.

Inequalities of Fate very curious. Should like, on this account, to
believe in Reincarnation. Spend some time picturing to myself completely
renovated state of affairs, with, amongst other improvements, total
reversal of relative positions of Lady B. and myself.

(Query: Is thought on abstract questions ever a waste of time?)

_December 11th._--Robert, still harping on topic of yesterday's
breakfast, says suddenly Why Not a Ham? to which I reply austerely that a
ham is on order, but will not appear until arrival of R.'s brother
William and his wife, for Christmas visit. Robert, with every
manifestation of horror, says Are William and Angela coming to us for
_Christmas?_ This attitude absurd, as invitation was given months
ago, at Robert's own suggestion.

(Query here becomes unavoidable: Does not a misplaced optimism exist,
common to all mankind, leading on to false conviction that social
engagements, if dated sufficiently far ahead, will never really
materialise?)

Vicky and Mademoiselle return from walk with small white-and-yellow
kitten, alleged by them homeless and starving. Vicky fetches milk, and
becomes excited. Agree that kitten shall stay "for to-night" but feel
that this is weak.

(_Mem_.: Remind Vicky to-morrow that Daddy does not like cats.)
Mademoiselle becomes very French, on subject of cats generally, and am
obliged to check her. She is _blessée_, and all three retire to
schoolroom.

_December 12th._--Robert says out of the question to keep stray
kitten. Existing kitchen cat more than enough. Gradually modifies this
attitude under Vicky's pleadings. All now depends on whether kitten is
male or female. Vicky and Mademoiselle declare this is known to them, and
kitten already christened Napoleon. Find myself unable to enter into
discussion on the point in French. The gardener takes opposite view to
Vicky's and Mademoiselle's. They thereupon re-christen the kitten, seen
playing with an old tennis ball, as Helen Wills.

Robert's attention, perhaps fortunately, diverted by mysterious trouble
with the water-supply. He says The Ram has Stopped. (This sounds to me
Biblical.)

Give Mademoiselle a hint that H. Wills should not be encouraged to put in
injudicious appearances downstairs.

_December 13th._--Ram resumes activities. Helen Wills still with us.

_December 16th._--Very stormy weather, floods out and many trees
prostrated at inconvenient angles. Call from Lady Boxe, who says that she
is off to the South of France next week, as she Must have Sunshine. She
asks Why I do not go there too, and likens me to piece of chewed string,
which I feel to be entirely inappropriate and rather offensive figure of
speech, though perhaps kindly meant.

Why not just pop into the train, enquires Lady B., pop across France, and
pop out into Blue Sky, Blue Sea, and Summer Sun? Could make perfectly
comprehensive reply to this, but do not do so, question of expense having
evidently not crossed Lady B.'s horizon. (_Mem_.: Interesting
subject for debate at Women's Institute, perhaps: That Imagination is
incompatible with Inherited Wealth. On second thoughts, though, fear this
has a socialistic trend.)

Reply to Lady B. with insincere professions of liking England very much
even in the Winter. She begs me not to let myself become
parochially-minded.

Departure of Lady B. with many final appeals to me to reconsider South of
France. Make civil pretence, which deceives neither of us, of wavering,
and promise to ring her up in the event of a change of mind.

(Query: Cannot many of our moral lapses from Truth be frequently charged
upon the tactless persistence of others?)

_December 17th, London._--Come up to dear Rose's fiat for two days'
Christmas shopping, after prolonged discussion with Robert, who maintains
that All can equally well be done by Post.

Take early train so as to get in extra afternoon. Have with me Robert's
old leather suit-case, own ditto in fibre, large quantity of
chrysanthemums done up in brown paper for .Rose, small packet of
sandwiches, handbag, fur coat in case weather turns cold, book for
journey, and illustrated paper kindly presented by Mademoiselle at the
station. (Query: suggests itself: Could not some of these things have
been dispensed with, and if so which?)

Bestow belongings in the rack, and open illustrated paper with sensation
of leisured opulence, derived from unwonted absence of all domestic
duties.

Unknown lady enters carriage at first stop, and takes seat opposite. She
has expensive-looking luggage in moderate quantity, and small red morocco
jewel-case, also bran-new copy, without library label, of _Life of Sir
Edward Marshall-Hall_. Am reminded of Lady B. and have recrudescence
of Inferiority Complex.

Remaining seats occupied by elderly gentleman wearing spats, nondescript
female in a Burberry, and young man strongly resembling an Arthur Watts
drawing. He looks at a copy of _Punch_, and I spend much time in
wondering if it contains an Arthur Watts drawing and if he is struck by
resemblance, and if so what his reactions are, whether of pain or
gratification.

Roused from these unprofitable, but sympathetic, considerations by
agitation on the part of elderly gentleman, who says that, upon his soul,
he is being dripped upon. Everybody looks at ceiling, and Burberry female
makes a vague reference to unspecified "pipes" which she declares often
"go like that". Someone else madly suggests turning off the' heat.
Elderly gentleman refuses all explanations and declares that _It comes
from the rack_. We all look with horror at Rose's chrysanthemums, from
which large drips of water descend regularly. Am overcome with shame,
remove chrysanthemums, apologise to elderly gentleman, and sit down again
opposite to superior unknown, who has remained glued to _Sir E.
Marshall-Hall_ throughout, and reminds me of Lady B. more than ever.

(_Mem_.: Speak to Mademoiselle about officiousness of thrusting
flowers into water unasked, just before wrapping up.)

Immerse myself in illustrated weekly. Am informed by it that Lord Toto
Finch (inset) is responsible for camera-study (herewith) of the Loveliest
Legs in Los Angeles, belonging to well-known English Society girl, near
relation (by the way) of famous racing peer, father of well-known Smart
Set twins (portrait overleaf).

(Query: Is our popular Press going to the dogs?)

Turn attention to short story, but give it up on being directed, just as
I become interested, to page XLVIIb, which I am quite unable to locate.
Become involved instead with suggestions for Christmas Gifts. I
want my gifts, the writer assures me, to be individual and yet
appropriate--beautiful, and yet enduring. Then why not Enamel
dressing-table set, at £94 16s. 4d. or Set of crystal-ware, exact replica
of early English cut-glass, at moderate price of £34 17s. 9d.?

Why not, indeed?

Am touched to discover further on, however, explicit reference to Giver
with Restricted Means--though even here, am compelled to differ from
author's definition of restricted means. Let originality of thought, she
says, add character to trifling offering. Would not many of my friends
welcome suggestion of a course of treatment--(six for 5 guineas)--at
Madame Dolly Varden's Beauty Parlour in Piccadilly to be placed to my
account?

Cannot visualise myself making this offer to our Vicar's wife, still less
her reception of it, and decide to confine myself to oneand-sixpenny
calendar with picture of sunset on Scaw Fell, as usual.

(Indulge, on the other hand, in a few moments' idle phantasy, in which I
suggest to Lady B. that she should accept from me as a graceful and
appropriate Christmas gift, a course of Reducing Exercises accompanied by
Soothing and Wrinkle-eradicating Face Massage.)

This imaginative exercise brought to a conclusion by arrival.

Obliged to take taxi from station, mainly owing to chrysanthemums (which
would not combine well with two suit-cases and fur coat on moving
stairway, which I distrust and dislike anyhow, and am only too apt to
make conspicuous failure of Stepping Off with Right Foot foremost)--but
also partly owing to fashionable locality of Rose's flat, miles removed
from any Underground.

Kindest welcome from dear Rose, who is most appreciative of
chrysanthemums. Refrain from mentioning unfortunate incident with elderly
gentleman in train.

_December 19th._--Find Christmas shopping very exhausting. Am
paralysed in the Army and Navy Stores on discovering that List of Xmas
Presents is lost, but eventually run it to earth in Children's Books
Department. While there choose book for dear Robin, and wish for the
hundredth time that Vicky had been less definite about wanting Toy
Greenhouse and _nothing else_. This apparently unprocurable.
(_Mem_.: Take early opportunity of looking up story of the Roc's Egg
to tell Vicky.)

Rose says "Try Selfridge's." I protest, but eventually go there, find
admirable--though expensive--Toy Greenhouse, and unpatriotically purchase
it at once. Decide not to tell Robert this.

Choose appropriate offerings for Rose, Mademoiselle, William, and
Angela--(who will be staying with us, so gifts must be above
calendar-mark)--and lesser trifles for everyone else. Unable to decide
between almost invisibly small diary, and really handsome card, for
Cissie Crabbe, but eventually settle on diary, as it will fit into
ordinary-sized envelope.

_December 20th._--Rose takes me to see St. John Ervine's play, and
am much amused. Overhear one lady in stalls ask another: Why don't
_you_ write a play, dear? Well, says the friend, it's so difficult,
what with one thing and another, to find _time_. Am staggered.
(Query: Could I write a play myself? Could we _all_ write plays, if
only we had the time? Reflect that St. J. E. lives in the same county as
myself, but feel that this does not constitute sound excuse for writing
to ask him how he finds the time to write plays.)

_December 22nd._--Return home. One bulb in partial flower, but not
satisfactory.

December 23rd.--Meet Robin at the Junction. He has lost his ticket,
parcel of sandwiches, and handkerchief, but produces large wooden
packing-case, into which little shelf has been wedged. Understand that
this represents result of Carpentry Class--expensive "extra" at
school--and is a Christmas present. Will no doubt appear on bill in due
course.

Robin says essential to get gramophone record called "Is Izzy Azzy Wozz?"
(_N.B._ Am often struck by disquieting thought that the dear
children are entirely devoid of any artistic feeling whatever, in art,
literature, or music. This conviction intensified after hearing "Is Izzy
Azzy Wozz?" rendered fourteen times running on the gramophone, after I
have succeeded in obtaining record.)

Much touched at enthusiastic greeting between Robin and Vicky.
Mademoiselle says, "Ah, c'est gentil!" and produces a handkerchief, which
I think exaggerated, especially as in half-an-hour's time she comes to me
with complaint that R. and V. have gone up into the rafters and are
shaking down plaster from nursery ceiling. Remonstrate with them from
below. They sing "Is Izzy Azzy Wozz?" Am distressed at this, as providing
fresh confirmation of painful conviction that neither has any ear for
music, nor ever will have.

Arrival of William and Angela, at half-past three. Should like to hurry
up tea, but feel that servants would be annoyed, so instead offer to show
them their rooms, which they know perfectly well already. We exchange
news about relations. Robin and Vicky appear, still singing "Is Izzy Azzy
Wozz?" Angela says that they have grown. Can see by her expression that
she thinks them odious, and very badly brought-up. She tells me about the
children in the last house she stayed at. All appear to have been
miracles of cleanliness, intelligence, and charm. A. also adds, most
unnecessarily, that they are musical, and play the piano nicely.

(_Mem_.: A meal the most satisfactory way of entertaining any guest.
Should much like to abridge the interval between tea and dinner--or else
to introduce supplementary collation in between.)

At dinner we talk again about relations, and ask one another if anything
is ever heard of poor Frederick, nowadays, and how Mollie's marriage is
turning out, and whether Grandmama is thinking of going to the East Coast
again this summer. Am annoyed because Robert and William sit on in the
dining-room until nearly ten o'clock, which makes the servants late.

_December 24th._--Take entire family to children's party at
neighbouring Rectory. Robin says Damn three times in the Rector's
hearing, an expression never used by him before or since, but apparently
reserved for this unsuitable occasion. Party otherwise highly successful,
except that I again meet recent arrival at the Grange, on whom I have not
yet called. She is a Mrs. Somers, and is said to keep Bees. Find myself
next to her at tea, but cannot think of anything to say about Bees,
except Does she _like_ them, which sounds like a bad riddle, so
leave it unsaid and talk about Preparatory Schools instead. (Am
interested to note that no two parents ever seem to have heard of one
another's Preparatory Schools. Query: Can this indicate an undue number
of these establishments throughout the country?)

After dinner, get presents ready for children's stockings. William
unfortunately steps on small glass article of doll's furniture intended
for Vicky, but handsomely offers a shilling in compensation, which I
refuse. Much time taken up in discussing this. At eleven P.M. children
still wide awake. Angela suggests Bridge and asks Who is that Mrs. Somers
we met at the Rectory, who seems to be interested in Bees? (A. evidently
more skilled than myself in social amenities, but do not make this
comment aloud.)

_Xmas Day._--Festive, but exhausting, Christmas. Robin and Vicky
delighted with everything, and spend much of the day eating. Vicky
presents' her Aunt Angela with small square of canvas on which blue
donkey is worked in cross-stitch. Do not know whether to apologise for
this or not, but eventually decide better to say nothing, and hint to
Mademoiselle that other design might have been preferable.

The children perhaps rather too much _en évidence_, as Angela,
towards tea-time, begins to tell me that the little Maitlands have such a
delightful nursery, and always spend entire day in it except when out for
long walks with governess and dogs.

William asks if that Mrs. Somers is one of the _Dorsetshire_ lot--a
woman who knows about Bees.

Make a note that I really must call on Mrs. S. early next week. Read up
something about Bees before going.

Turkey and plum-pudding cold in the evening, to give servants a rest.
Angela looks at bulbs, and says What made me think they would be in
flower for Christmas? Do not reply to this, but suggest early bed for us
all.

_December 27th._--Departure of William and Angela. Slight shock
administered at eleventh hour by Angela, who asks if I realise that
_she_ was winner of first prize in last week's _Time and Tide_
Competition, under the pseudonym of _Intelligensia_. Had naturally
no idea of this, but congratulate her, without mentioning that I entered
for same competition myself, without success.

(Query: Are Competition Editors always sound on questions of literary
merit? Judgement possibly becomes warped through overwork.)

Another children's party this afternoon, too large and elaborate. Mothers
stand about it in black hats and talk to one another about gardens,
books, and difficulty of getting servants to stay in the country. Tea
handed about the hall in a detached way, while children are herded into
another room. Vicky and Robin behave well, and I compliment them on the
way home, but am informed later by Mademoiselle that she has found large
collection of chocolate biscuits in pocket of Vicky's party-frock.

(_Mem_.: Would it be advisable to point out to Vicky that this
constitutes failure in intelligence, as well as in manners, hygiene, and
common honesty?)

_January 1st, 1930._--We give a children's party ourselves. Very,
very exhausting performance, greatly complicated by stormy weather, which
keeps half the guests away, and causes grave fears as to arrival of the
conjurer.

Decide to have children's tea in the dining-room, grown-ups in the study,
and clear the drawing-room for games and conjurer. Minor articles of
drawing-room furniture moved up to my bedroom, where I continually knock
myself against them. Bulb-bowls greatly in everybody's way and are put on
window-ledges in passage, at which Mademoiselle says: "Tiens! ça fait un
drôle d'effet, ces malheureux petits brins de verdure!" Do not like this
description at all.

The children from neighbouring Rectory arrive too early, and are shown
into completely empty drawing-room. Entrance of Vicky, in new green
party-frock, with four balloons, saves situation.

(Query: What is the reason that clerical households are always
unpunctual, invariably arriving either first, or last, at any gathering
to which bidden?)

Am struck at variety of behaviour amongst mothers, some so helpful in
organising games and making suggestions, others merely sitting
about. (_N.B._ For sake of honesty, should rather say _standing_
about, as supply of chairs fails early.) Resolve always to send Robin and
Vicky to parties without me, if possible, as children without parents
infinitely preferable from point of view of hostess. Find it difficult to
get "Oranges and Lemons" going, whilst at same time appearing to give
intelligent attention to remarks from visiting mother concerning
Exhibition of Italian Pictures at Burlington House. Find myself telling
her how marvellous I think them, although in actual fact have not yet
seen them at all. Realise that this mis-statement should be corrected at
once, but omit to do so, and later find myself involved in entirely
unintentional web of falsehood. Should like to work out how far morally
to blame for this state of things, but have not time.

Tea goes off well. Mademoiselle presides in dining-room, I in
study. Robert and solitary elderly father--(looks more like a
grandfather)--stand in doorway and talk about big-game shooting and
the last General Election, in intervals of handing tea.

Conjurer arrives late, but is a success with children. Ends up with
presents from a bran-tub, in which more bran is spilt on carpet,
children's clothes, and house generally, than could ever have been got
into tub originally. Think this odd, but have noticed similar phenomenon
before.

Guests depart between seven and half-past, and Helen Wills and the dog
are let out by Robin, having been shut up on account of crackers, which
they dislike.

Robert and I spend evening helping servants to restore order, and trying
to remember where ash-trays, clock, ornaments, and ink were put for
safety.

_January 3rd._--Hounds meet in the village. Robert agrees to take
Vicky on the pony. Robin, Mademoiselle, and I walk to the Post Office to
see the start, and Robin talks about Oliver Twist, making no reference
whatever to hunt from start to finish, and viewing horses, hounds, and
huntsmen with equal detachment. Am impressed at his non-suggestibility,
but feel that some deep Freudian significance may lie behind it all. Feel
also that Robert would take very different view of it.

Meet quantities of hunting neighbours, who say to Robin, "Aren't you
riding too?" which strikes one as lacking in intelligence, and ask me if
we have lost many trees lately, but do not wait for answer, as what they
really want to talk about is the number of trees they have lost
themselves.

Mademoiselle looks at hounds and says, "Ah, ces bons chiens!" also
admires horses, "quelles bêtes superbes"--but prudently keeps well away
from all, in which I follow her example.

Vicky looks nice on pony, and I receive compliments about her, which I
accept in an off-hand manner, tinged with incredulity, in order to show
that I am a modern mother and should scorn to be foolish about my
children.

Hunt moves off, Mademoiselle remarking, "Voilà bien le sport anglais!"
Robin says: "Now can we go home?" and eats milk-chocolate. We return to
the house and I write order to the Stores, post-card to the butcher, two
letters about Women's Institutes, one about Girl Guides, note to the
dentist asking for appointment next week, and make memorandum in
engagement-book that I _must_ call on Mrs. Somers at the Grange.

Am horrified and incredulous at discovery that these occupations have
filled the entire morning.

Robert and Vicky return late, Vicky plastered with mud from head to foot
but unharmed. Mademoiselle removes her, and says no more about _le
sport anglais_.

_January 4th._--A beautiful day, very mild, makes me feel that with
any reasonable luck Mrs. Somers will be out, and I therefore call at the
Grange. She is, on the contrary, in. Find her in the drawing-room,
wearing printed velvet frock that I immediately think would look nice on
_me_. No sign anywhere of Bees, but am getting ready to enquire
about them intelligently when Mrs. Somers suddenly says that her Mother
is here, and knows my old school-friend Cissie Crabbe, who says that I am
so _amusing_. The Mother comes in--very elegant Marcel wave--(cannot
imagine where she got it, unless she has this moment come from
London)--and general air of knowing how to dress in the country. She is
introduced to me--name sounds exactly like Eggchalk but do not think this
possible--and says she knows my old school-friend Miss Crabbe, at
Norwich, and has heard all about how very, very amusing I am. Become
completely paralysed and can think of nothing whatever to say except that
it has been very stormy lately. Leave as soon as possible.

_January 5th._--Rose, in the kindest way, offers to take me as her
guest to special dinner of famous Literary Club if I will come up to
London for the night. Celebrated editor of literary weekly paper in the
chair, spectacularly successful author of famous play as guest of honour.
Principal authors, poets, and artists from--says Rose--all over the
world, expected to be present.

Spend much of the evening talking to Robert about this. Put it to him:
(a) That no expense is involved beyond 3rd class return ticket to London;
(b) that in another twelve years Vicky will be coming out, and it is
therefore incumbent on me to Keep in Touch with People; (c) that this is
an opportunity that will never occur again; (d) that it isn't as if I
were asking him to come too. Robert says nothing to (a) or (b) and only
"I should hope not" to (c), but appears slightly moved by (d). Finally
says he supposes I must do as I like, and very likely I shall meet some
old friends of my Bohemian days when living with Rose in Hampstead.

Am touched by this, and experience passing wonder if Robert can be
feeling slightly jealous. This fugitive idea dispelled by his immediately
beginning to speak about failure of hot water this morning.

_January 7th._--Rose takes me to Literary Club dinner. I wear my
Blue. Am much struck by various young men who have defiantly put on
flannel shirts and no ties, and brushed their hair up on end. They are
mostly accompanied by red-headed young women who wear printed crêpe
frocks and beads. Otherwise, everyone in evening dress. Am introduced to
distinguished Editor, who turns out to be female and delightful. Should
like to ask her once and for all why prizes in her paper's weekly
competition are so often divided, but feel this would be unsuitable and
put Rose to shame.

Am placed at dinner next to celebrated best-seller, who tells me in the
kindest way how to evade paying super-tax. Am easily able to conceal from
him the fact that I am not at present in a position to require this
information. Very distinguished artist sits opposite, and becomes more
and more convivial as evening advances. This encourages me to remind him
that we have met before--which we have, in old Hampstead days. He
declares enthusiastically that he remembers me perfectly--which we both
know to be entirely untrue--and adds wildly that he has followed my work
ever since. Feel it better to let this pass unchallenged. Later on,
distinguished artist is found to have come out without any money, and all
in his immediate neighbourhood are required to lend him amount demanded
by head-waiter.

Feel distinctly thankful that Robert is not with me, and am moreover
morally certain that distinguished artist will remember nothing whatever
in the morning, and will therefore be unable to refund my
threeand-sixpence.

Rose handsomely pays for my dinner as well as her own.

(This suggests _Mem_.: That English cooking, never unduly
attractive, becomes positively nauseating on any public occasion, such as
a banquet. Am seriously distressed at probable reactions of foreign
visitors to this evening's fish, let alone other items.)

Young gentleman is introduced to me by Rose--(she saying in rapid murmur
that he is part-author of a one-act play that has been acted three times
by a Repertory company in Jugo-Slavia.) It turns out later that he has
met Lady Boxe, who struck him, he adds immediately, as a poisonous woman.
We then get on well together. (Query: Is not a common hate one of the
strongest links in human nature? Answer, most regrettably, in the
affirmative.)

Very, very distinguished Novelist approaches me (having evidently
mistaken me for someone else), and talks amiably. She says that she can
only write between twelve at night and four in the morning, and not
always then. 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_. 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. Besides, could not hope that it would
pass without observation from Vicky, let alone Robert.

_Later._--Worst fears realised, as to hair. Dear Mary, always so
observant, gazes at it in nerve-shattering silence but says nothing, till
I am driven to make half-hearted explanation. Her only comment is that
she cannot imagine why anybody should deliberately make themselves look
ten years older than they need. Feel that, if she wishes to discourage
further experiments on my part, this observation could scarcely be
improved upon. Change the subject, and talk about the children. Mary most
sympathetic, and goes so far as to say that my children have brains,
which encourages me to tell anecdotes about them until I see Robert
looking at me, just as I get to Robin's precocious taste for really good
literature. By curious coincidence second post brings letter from Robin,
saying that he wishes to collect cigarette-cards and will I send him all
the types of National Beauty, Curious Beaks, and Famous Footballers, that
I can find. Make no comment on this singular request aloud.

Mary stays to tea and we talk about H. G. Wells, Women's Institutes,
infectious illness, and _Journey's End_. Mary says she cannot go and
see this latter because she always cries at the theatre. I say, Then once
more will make no difference. Discussion becomes involved, and we drop
it. Vicky comes in and immediately offers to recite. Can see that Mary
(who has three children of her own) does not in the least want to hear
her, but she feigns enthusiasm politely. Vicky recites: "Maître Corbeau
sur un arbre perché"--(_N.B._ Suggest to Mademoiselle that Vicky's
repertory should be enlarged. Feel sure that I have heard Maitre Corbeau,
alternately with La Cigale et la Fourmi, some eight hundred times within
the last six months.)

After Mary has gone, Robert looks at me and suddenly remarks: "Now
_that's_ what I call an attractive woman." Am gratified at his
appreciation of talented friend, but should like to be a little clearer
regarding exact significance of emphasis on the word _that_. Robert,
however, says no more, and opportunity is lost as Ethel comes in to say
Cook is sorry she's run right out of milk, but if I will come to the
store-cupboard she thinks there's a tin of Ideal, and she'll make do with
that.

_January 25th._--Attend a Committee Meeting in the village to
discusss how to raise funds for Village Hall. Am asked to take the chair.
Begin by saying thaat I know how much we all have this excellent object
at heart, and that I feel sure there swill be no lack of suggestions as
to best method of obtaining requisite sum of money. Pause for
suggestions, which is met with ddeath-like silence. I say, There are so
many ways to choose from--implication being that I attribute silence to
plethora of ideeas, rather than to absence of them. (_Note_: Curious
and rather depressing, to see how ffrequeritly the pursuit of Good Works
leads to apparently unavoidable duplicity.) Silence continues, and I say
Well, twice, arnd Come, come, once. (Sudden impulse to exclaim, "I lift
up my finger and I say Tweett, Tweet," is fortunately overcome.) At last:
extract a suggestion of a concert from Mrs. L. (whose son plays the
violin) and a whist-drive from Miss P. (who won Ladies' First Prize at
the last one). Florrie P. suggests a dance and is at once reminded that
it will be Lent. She says that Lent isn't what it was. Her mother says
the Vicar is one that holds with Lent, and always has been. Someone else
says That reminds her, has anyone heard that old Mr. Small passed away
last night? We all agree that eighty-six is a great age. Mrs. L. says
that on her mother's side of the family, there is an aunt of
ninety-eight. Still with us, she adds. The aunt's husband, on the other
hand, was gathered just before his sixtieth birthday. Everyone says, You
can't ever _tell_, not really. There is a suitable pause before we
go back to Lent and the Vicar. General opinion that a concert isn't like
a dance, and needn't--says Mrs. L.--interfere.

On this understanding, we proceed. Various familiar items--piano solo,
recitation, duet, and violin solo from Master L.--are all agreed upon.
Someone says that Mrs. F. and Miss H. might do a dialogue, and has to be
reminded that they are no longer on speaking terms, owing to strange
behaviour of Miss H. about her bantams. Ah, says Mrs. S., it wasn't only
_bantams_ was at the bottom of it, there's two sides to every
question. (There are at least twenty to this one, by the time we've done
with it.)

Sudden appearance of our Vicar's wife, who says apologetically that she
made a mistake in the time. I beg her to take the chair. She refuses. I
insist. She says No, no, positively not, and takes it.

We begin all over again, but general attitude towards Lent much less
elastic.

Meeting ends at about five o'clock. Our Vicar's wife walks 'home with me,
and tells me that I look tired. I ask her to come in and have tea. No,
she says, no, it's too kind of me, but she must go on to the far end of
the parish. She remains standing at the gate telling me about old
Small--eighty-six a great age--till quarter-to-six, when she departs,
saying that she cannot _think_ why I am looking so tired.

_February 11th._--Robin writes again about cigarette-cards. I send
him all those I have collected, and Vicky produces two which she has
obtained from the garden-boy. Find that this quest grows upon one, and am
apt now, when in Plymouth or any other town, to scan gutters, pavements,
and tram-floors in search of Curious Beaks, Famous Football Players, and
the like. Have even gone so far as to implore perfect stranger, sitting
opposite me in train, _not_ to throw cigarette-card out of the
window, but give it to me instead. Perfect stranger does so with an air
of courteous astonishment, and as he asks for no explanation, am obliged
to leave him under the impression that I have merely been trying to force
him into conversation with me.

(_Note:_ Could not short article, suitable for _Time and Tide_,
be worked up on some such lines as: Lengths to which Mother-love may
legitimately go? On second thoughts abandon the idea, as being faintly
reminiscent of _démodé_ enquiry: Do Shrimps make Good Mothers?)

Hear that Lady Boxe has returned from South of France and is entertaining
house-party. She sends telephone message by the butler, asking me to tea
to-morrow. I accept. (Why?)

_February 12th._--Insufferable behaviour of Lady B. Find large
party, all of whom are directed at front door to go to the Hard Courts,
where, under inadequate shelter, in Arctic temperature, all are compelled
to watch young men in white flannels keeping themselves warm by banging a
little ball against a wall. Lady B. wears an emerald-green leather coat
with fur collar and cuffs. I, having walked down, have on ordinary coat
and skirt, and freeze rapidly. Find myself next unknown lady who talks
wistfully about the tropics. Can well understand this. On other side
elderly gentleman, who says conversationally that this Naval Disarmament
is All his Eye. This contribution made to contemporary thought, he says
no more. Past five o'clock before we are allowed to go in to tea, by
which time am only too well aware that my face is blue and my hands
purple. Lady B. asks me at tea how the children are, and adds, to the
table at large, that I am "A Perfect Mother". Am naturally avoided,
conversationally, after this, by everybody at the tea-table. Later on,
Lady B. tells us about South of France. She quotes repartees made by
herself in French, and then translates them.

(Unavoidable Query presents itself here: Would a verdict of Justifiable
Homicide delivered against their mother affect future careers of children
unfavourably?)

Discuss foreign travel with unknown, but charming, lady in black. We are
delighted with one another--or so I confidently imagine--arid she begs me
to go and see her if I am ever in her neighbourhood. I say that I
will--but am well aware that courage will fail me when it comes to the
point. Pleasant sense of mutual sympathy suddenly and painfully shattered
by my admitting--in reply to direct enquiry--that I am _not_ a
gardener--which the lady in black is, to an extent that apparently
amounts to monomania. She remains charming, but quite ceases to be
delighted with me, and I feel discouraged.

(_N.B._ _Must_ try to remember that Social Success is seldom
the portion of those who habitually live in the provinces. No doubt they
serve some other purpose in the vast field of Creation--but have not yet
discovered what.)

Lady B. asks if I have seen the new play at the Royalty. I say No. She
says Have I been to the Italian Art Exhibition? I have not. She enquires
what I think of _Her Privates We_--which I haven't yet read--and I
at once give her a long and spirited account of my reactions to it. Feel
after this that I had better go, before I am driven to further excesses.

Shall she, says Lady B., ring for my car? Refrain from replying that no
amount of ringing will bring my car to the door all by itself, and say
instead that I walked. Lady B. exclaims that this is Impossible, and that
I am Too Marvellous, Altogether. Take my leave before she can add that I
am such a Perfect Countrywoman, which I feel is coming next.

Get home--still chilled to the bone owing to enforced detention at Hard
Court--and tell Robert what I think of Lady B. He makes no answer, but I
feel he agrees.

Mademoiselle says: "Tiens! Madame a mauvaise mine. On dirait un
cadavre..."

Feel that this is kindly meant, but do not care about the picture that it
conjures up.

Say good-night to Vicky, looking angelic in bed, and ask what she is
thinking about, lying there. She disconcertingly replies with briskness:
"Oh, Kangaroos and things."

(_Note:_ The workings of the infant mind very, very difficult to
follow, sometimes. Mothers by no means infallible.)

_February 14th._--Have won first prize in _Time and Tide_
competition, but again divided. Am very angry indeed, and write excellent
letter to the Editor under false name, protesting against this iniquitous
custom. After it has gone, become seriously uneasy under the fear that
the use of a false name is illegal. Look through _Whitaker_, but can
find nothing but Stamp Duties and Concealment of Illegitimate Births, so
abandon it in disgust.

Write to Angela--under my own name--to enquire kindly if _she_ went
in for the competition. Hope she did, and that she will have the decency
to say so.

_February 16th._--Informed by Ethel, as she calls me in the morning,
that Helen Wills has had six kittens, of which five survive.

Cannot imagine how I shall break this news to Robert. Reflect--not for
the first time--that the workings of Nature are most singular.

Angela writes that she _didn't_ go in for competition, thinking the
subject puerile, but that she solved "Merope's" Crossword puzzle in
fifteen minutes.

(_N.B._ This last statement almost certainly inaccurate.)

_February 21st._--Remove bulb-bowls, with what is left of bulbs, to
greenhouse. Tell Robert that I hope to do better another year. He
replies, Another year, better not waste my money. This reply depresses
me, moreover weather continues Arctic, and have by no means recovered
from effects of Lady B.'s so-called hospitality.

Vicky and Mademoiselle spend much time in boot-cupboard, where Helen
Wills is established with five kittens. Robert still unaware of what has
happened, but cannot hope this ignorance will continue. Must, however,
choose suitable moment for revelation--which is unlikely to occur today
owing to bath-water having been cold again this morning.

Lady B. calls in the afternoon--not, as might have been expected, to see
if I am in bed with pneumonia, but to ask if I will help at a Bazaar
early in May. Further enquiry reveals that it is in aid of the Party
Funds. I say What Party? (Am well aware of Lady B.'s political views, but
resent having it taken for granted that mine are the same--which they are
not.)

Lady B. says she is Surprised. Later on she says Look at the Russians,
and even, Look at the Pope. I find myself telling her to Look at
Unemployment--none of which gets us any further. Am relieved when tea
comes in, and still more so when Lady B. says she really mustn't wait, as
she has to call on such a number of Tenants. She asks after Robert, and I
think seriously of replying that he is out receiving the Oath of
Allegiance from all the vassals on the estate, but decide that this would
be undignified.

Escort Lady B. to the hall-door. She tells me that the oak dresser would
look better on the other side of the hall, and that it is a mistake to
put mahogany and walnut in the same room. Her last word is that she will
Write, about the bazaar. Relieve my feelings by waving small red flag
belonging to Vicky, which is lying on the hall-stand, and saying _A la
lanterne_! as chauffeur drives off. Rather unfortunately, Ethel
chooses this moment to walk through the hall. She says nothing, but looks
astonished.

_February 22nd._--Gloom prevails, owing to Helen Wills having
elected, with incredible idiocy, to introduce progeny, one by one, to
Robert's notice at late hour last night, when he was making final round
of the house.

Send Mademoiselle and Vicky on errand to the village whilst massacre of
the innocents takes place in pail of water in backyard. Small ginger is
allowed to survive. Spend much time in thinking out plausible story to
account to Vicky for disappearance of all the rest. Mademoiselle, when
informed privately of what has happened, tells me to leave Vicky to
her--which I gladly agree to do--and adds that "les hommes manquent de
coeur". Feel that this is leading us in the direction of a story which I
have heard before, and do not wish to hear again, regarding _un mariage
échoué_ arranged years ago for Mademoiselle by her parents, in which
negotiations broke down owing to mercenary attitude of _le futur_.
Break in with hasty enquiry regarding water-tightness or otherwise of
Vicky's boots.

(Query: Does incessant pressure of domestic cares vitiate capacity for
human sympathy? Fear that it does, but find myself unable to attempt
reformation in this direction at present.)

Receive long, and in parts illegible, letter from Cissie Crabbe, bearing
on the back of the envelope extraordinary enquiry: Do you know of a
really _good_ hotel Manageress? Combat strong inclination to reply
on a postcard: No, but can recommend thoroughly reliable Dentist. Dear
Cissie, one remembers from old schooldays, has very little sense of
humour.

_February 24th._--Robert and I lunch with our Member and his wife. I
sit next elderly gentleman who talks about stag-hunting and tells me that
there is Nothing Cruel about it. The Stag _likes_ it, and it is an
honest, healthy, thoroughly _English_ form of sport. I say Yes, as
anything else would be waste of breath, and turn to Damage done by recent
storms, New arrivals in the neighbourhood, and Golf-links at Budleigh
Salterton. Find that we get back to stag-hunting again in next to no
time, and remain there for the rest of lunch.

Can hear Robert's neighbour, sitting opposite in cochineal three-piece
suit, telling him about her Chilblains. Robert civil, but does not appear
unduly concerned. (Perhaps three-piece cochineal thinks that he is one of
those people who feel more than they can express?) She goes on to past
appendicitis, present sciatica, and threat of colitis in the near future.
Robert still unmoved.

Ladies retire to the drawing-room and gather round quite inadequate fire.
Coffee. I perform my usual sleight-of-hand, transferring large piece of
candy-sugar from saucer to handbag, for Vicky's benefit. (Query: Why do
people living in same neighbourhood as myself obtain without difficulty
minor luxuries that I am totally unable to procure? Reply to this, if
pursued to logical conclusion, appears to point to inadequate
housekeeping on my part.)

Entrance of males. I hear my neighbour at lunch beginning all over again
about stag-hunting, this time addressed to his hostess, who is well-known
supporter of the R.S.P.C.A.

Our Member talks to me about Football. I say that I think well of the
French, and that Béhotéguy plays a good game. (_N.B._ This solitary
piece of knowledge always coming in useful, but _must_ try and find
out name of at least one British player, so as to vary it.)

As we take our leave with customary graceful speeches, clasp of handbag
unfortunately gives way, and piece of candy-sugar falls, with incredible
noise and violence, on to the parquet, and is pursued with officious zeal
and determination by all present except myself.

Very, very difficult moment...

Robert, on the whole, takes this well, merely enquiring on the way home
if I suppose that we shall ever be asked inside the house again.

_February 28th._--Notice, and am gratified by, appearance of large
clump of crocuses near the front gate. Should like to make whimsical and
charming reference to these, and try to fancy myself as "Elizabeth of the
German Garden", but am interrupted by Cook, saying that the Fish is here,
but he's only brought cod and haddock, and the haddock doesn't smell any
too fresh, so what about cod?

Have often noticed that Life is like that.

_March 1st._--The Kellways lunch with us, before going on all
together to wedding of Rosemary H., daughter of mutual friend and
neighbour. Fire refuses to burn up, and am still struggling with it when
they arrive, with small boy, Vicky's contemporary--all three frozen with
cold. I say, Do come and get warm! and they accept this, alas
meaningless, offer with enthusiasm. Vicky rushes in, and am struck, as
usual, by the complete and utter straightness of her hair in comparison
with that of practically every other child in the world. (Little Kellway
has natural wave.)

Chickens over-done, and potatoes underdone. Meringues quite a success,
especially with the children, though leading to brisk _sotto-voce_
encounter between Vicky and Mademoiselle on question of second helping.
This ends by an appeal from Mademoiselle for "un bon mouvement" on
Vicky's part--which she facilitates by summarily removing her plate,
spoon, and fork. Everybody ignores this drama, with the exception of the
infant Kellway, who looks amused, and unblenchingly attacks a second
meringue.

Start directly after lunch, Robert and Mary's husband appearing in a
highly unnatural state of shiny smartness with a top-hat apiece. Effect
of this splendour greatly mitigated, when they don the top-hats, by
screams of unaffected amusement from both children. We drive off, leaving
them leaning against Mademoiselle, apparently helpless with mirth.

(Query: Is not the inferiority complex, about which so much is written
and spoken, nowadays shifting from the child to the parent?)

Mary wears blue with admirable diamond ornament, and looks nice. I wear
red, and think regretfully of great-aunt's diamond ring, still reposing
in back street of Plymouth, under care of old friend the pawnbroker.
(_Note:_ Financial situation very low indeed, and must positively
take steps to send assortment of old clothes to second-hand dealer for
disposal. Am struck by false air of opulence with which I don fur coat,
white gloves, and new shoes--one very painful--and get into the car.
Irony of life thus exemplified.)

Charming wedding, Rosemary H. looks lovely, bridesmaids highly
picturesque. One of them has bright red hair, and am completely paralysed
by devastating enquiry from Mary's husband, who hisses at me through his
teeth: _Is that the colour yours was when you dyed it?_

Crowds of people at the reception. Know most of them, but am startled by
strange lady in pink, wearing eye-glasses, who says that I don't remember
her--which is only too true--but that she has played tennis at my house.
How, she says, are those sweet twins? Find myself telling her that they
are very well indeed, before I know where I am. Can only trust never to
set eyes on her again.

Exchange talk with Mrs. Somers, recent arrival to the neighbourhood, who
apologises profusely for never having returned my call. Am in doubt
whether to say that I haven't noticed the omission, or that I hope she
will repair it as quickly as possible. Either sounds uncivil.

Speak to old Lady Dufford, who reminds me that the last time we met was
at the Jones wedding. _That_, she says, came to grief within a year.
She also asks if I have heard about the Greens, who have separated, and
poor Winifred R., who has had to go back to her parents because He
drinks. Am not surprised when she concludes with observation that it is
rather _heartrending_ to see the two young things setting out
together.

Large car belonging to bridegroom draws up at hall-door, and old Lady D.
further wags her head at me and says Ah, in _our_ day it would have
been a carriage and pair--to which I offer no assent, thinking it very
unnecessary reminder of the flight of Time--and in any event, am Lady
D.'s junior by a good many years.

Melancholy engendered by the whole of this conversation is lightened by
glass of champagne. I ask Robert, sentimentally, if this makes him think
of _our_ wedding. He looks surprised and says No, not particularly,
why should it? As I cannot at the moment think of any particular reply to
this, the question drops.

Departure of the bridal couple is followed by general exodus, and 7 take
the Kell-ways home to tea.

Remove shoes with great thankfulness.

_March 3rd._--Vicky, after Halma, enquires abruptly whether, if she
died, I should cry? I reply in the affirmative. But, she says, should I
cry really _hard_. Should I roar and scream? Decline to commit
myself to any such extravagant demonstrations, at which Vicky displays a
tendency to hurt astonishment. I speak to Mademoiselle and say that I
hope she will discourage anything in Vicky that seems to verge upon the
morbid. Mademoiselle requires a translation of the last word, and, after
some consideration, I suggest dénaturé, at which she screams dramatically
and crosses herself, and assures me that if I knew what I was saying, I
should "en reculer d'effroi".

We decide to abandon the subject.

Our Vicar's wife calls for me at seven o'clock, and we go to a
neighbouring Women's Institute at which I have, rather rashly, promised
to speak. On the way there, our Vicar's wife tells me that the secretary
of the Institute is liable to have a heart attack at any minute and must
on no account exert herself, or be allowed to get over-excited. Even a
violent fit of laughing, she adds impressively, might carry her off in a
moment.

Hastily revise my speech, and remove from it two funny stories. After
this it is a shock to find that the programme for the evening includes
dancing and a game of General Post. I ask our Vicar's wife what would
happen if the secretary _did_ get a heart attack, and she replies
mysteriously, Oh, she always carries Drops in her handbag. The thing to
do is to keep an eye on her handbag. This I do nervously throughout the
evening, but fortunately no crisis supervenes.

I speak, am thanked, and asked if I will judge a Darning Competition.
This I do, in spite of inward misgivings that few people are less
qualified to give any opinion about darning than I am. I am thanked again
and given tea and a doughnut. We all play General Post and get very
heated. Signal success of the evening when two stout and elderly members
collide in the middle of the room, and both fall heavily to the floor
together. This, if anything, will surely bring on a heart attack, and am
prepared to make a rush at the handbag, but nothing happens. We all sing
the National Anthem, and our Vicar's wife says she does hope the lights
of her two-seater are in order, and drives me home. We are relieved, and
surprised, to find that the lights, all except the rear one, are in
order, although rather faint.

I beg our Vicar's wife to come in; she says, No, No, it is far too late,
really, and comes. Robert and Helen Wills both asleep in the
drawing-room. Our Vicar's wife says she must not stay a moment, and we
talk about Countrywomen, Stanley Baldwin, Hotels at Madeira (where none
of us have ever been), and other unrelated topics. Ethel brings in cocoa,
but can tell from the way she puts down the tray that she thinks it an
unreasonable requirement, and will quite likely give notice to-morrow.

At eleven our Vicar's wife says that she _does_ hope the lights of
the two-seater are still in order, and gets as far as the hall-door.
There we talk about forthcoming village concert, parrot-disease, and the
Bishop of the diocese.

Her car refuses to start, and Robert and I push it down the drive. After
a good deal of jerking and grinding, engine starts, the hand of our
Vicar's wife waves at us through the hole in the talc, and car disappears
down the lane.

Robert inhospitably says, let us put out the lights and fasten up the
hall-door and go up to bed immediately, in case she comes back for
anything. We do so, only delayed by Helen Wills, whom Robert tries vainly
to expel into the night. She retires under the piano, behind the
bookcase, and finally disappears altogether.

_March 4th._--Ethel, as I anticipated, gives notice. Cook says this
is so unsettling, she thinks she had better go too. Despair invades me.
Write five letters to Registry Offices.

_March 7th._--No hope.

_March 8th._--Cook relents, so far as to say that she will stay
until I am suited. Feel inclined to answer that, in, that case, she had
better make up her mind to a lifetime spent together--but naturallly
refrain. Spend exhausting day in Plymouth chasing mythical
house-parlourmaids. Meet Lady B., who says the servant difficulty, in
reality, is non-existent. She has No trouble. It is a question of knowing
how to treat them. Firmness, she says, but at the same time one must be
human. Am I human? she asks. Do I understand that they want occasional
diversion, just as I do myself? I lose my head and reply No, that it is
my custom to keep my servants chained up in the cellar when their work is
done. This flight of satire rather spoilt by Lady B. laughing heartily,
and saying that I am always so amusing. Well, she adds, we shall no doubt
see one another at lunch-time at the Duke of Cornwall Hotel, where alone
it is possible to get a decent meal. I reply with ready cordiality that
no doubt we shall, and go and partake of my usual lunch of baked beans
and a glass of water in small and obscure café.

Unavoidable Query, of painfully searching character, here presents
itself: If Lady B. had invited me as her guest to lunch at the D. of C.
Hotel, should I have accepted? Am conscious of being heartily tired of
baked beans and water, which in any case do not really serve to support
one through long day of shopping and servant-hunting. Moreover, am always
ready to See Life, in hotels or anywhere else. On the other hand, am
aware that self-respect would suffer severely through accepting
fiveshillings-worth of luncheon fronm Lady B. Ponder this problem of
psycholobgy in train on the way home, but reach no definite conclusion.

Day a complete failure as regards houseparlourmaid, but expedition cot
wasted, having found two cigarette-cards on pavement, both quite clean
Curious Beaks.

_March 9th._--Cannot hear of f a houseparlourmaid. Ethel, on the
other hand, can hear of at least a hundred situations, and opulent
motor-cars constantly ddash up to front door, containing applicanhts for
her services. Cook more and more unsettled. If this goes on, shall go to
Londobn and stay with Rose, in order to visit Agencies.

Meet Barbara, wearing new tweed, in village this morning--nice bright
girl, but long to suggest she should have adenoids removed. She says,
Will I be an Angel and look in on her mother, now practically an invalid?
I reply warmly Of course I will, not really meaning it, but remember that
we are now in Lent and suddenly decide to go at once. Admire the new
tweed. Barbara says It _is_ rather nice, isn't it, and adds--a
little strangely--that it came out of John Barker's Sale Catalogue, under
four guineas, and only needed letting out at the waist and taking in a
bit on the shoulders. Especially, she adds elliptically, now that skirts
are longer again.

Barbara goes to Evening Service, and I go to look in on her mother, whom
I find in shawls, sitting in an armchair reading--rather
ostentatiously--enormous _Life of Lord Beaconsfield_. I ask how she
is, and she shakes her head and enquires if I should ever guess that her
pet name amongst her friends once used to be Butterfly? (This kind of
question always so difficult, as either affirmative or negative reply apt
to sound unsympathetic. Feel it would hardly do to suggest that
Chrysalis, in view of the shawls, would now be more appropriate.)
However, says Mrs. Blenkinsop with a sad smile, it is never her way to
dwell upon herself and her own troubles. She just sits there, day after
day, always ready to sympathise in the little joys and troubles of
others, and I would hardly believe how unfailingly these are brought to
her. People say, she adds deprecatingly, that just her Smile does them
good. She does not know, she says, what they mean. (Neither do I.)

After this, there is a pause, and I feel that Mrs. B. is waiting for me
to pour out my little joys and troubles. Perhaps she hopes that Robert
has been unfaithful to me, or that I have fallen in love with the Vicar.

Am unable to rise to the occasion, so begin instead to talk about
Barbara's new tweed. Mrs. Blenkinsop at once replies that, for her part,
she has never given up all those little feminine touches that make All
the Difference. A ribbon here, a flower there. This leads to a story
about what was once said to her by a friend, beginning "It's so
wonderful, dear Mrs. Blenkinsop, to see the trouble you always take on
behalf of others", and ending with Mrs. B.'s own reply, to the effect
that she is only A Useless Old Woman, but that she has many, many
friends, and that this must be because her motto has always been: Look
Out and Not In: Look Up and not Down: Lend a Hand.

Conversation again languishes, and I have recourse to _Lord
Beaconsfield_. What, I ask, does Mrs. B. feel about him? She feels,
Mrs. B. replies, that he was a most Remarkable Personality. People have
often said to Mrs. B., Ah, how lonely it must be for you, alone here,
when dear Barbara is out enjoying herself with other young things. But
Mrs. B.'s reply to this is No, no. She is never alone when she has Her
Books. Books, to her, are _Friends_. Give her Shakespeare or Jane
Austen, Meredith or Hardy, and she is Lost--lost in a world of her own.
She sleeps so little that most of her nights are spent in reading. Have I
any idea, asks Mrs. B., what it is like to hear every hour, every
half-hour, chiming out all through the night? I have no idea whatever,
since am invariably obliged to struggle with overwhelming sleepiness from
nine o'clock onwards, but do not like to tell her this, so take my
departure. Mrs. B.'s parting observation is an expression of thanks to me
for coming to enquire after an old woman, and she is as well as she can
hope to be, at sixty-six years old--she _should_ say, sixty-six
years _young_, all her friends tell her.

Reach home totally unbenefited by this visit, and with strange tendency
to snap at everybody I meet.

_March 10th._--Still no house-parlourmaid, and write to ask Rose if
I can go to her for a week. Also write to old Aunt Gertrude in Shropshire
to enquire if I may send Vicky and Mademoiselle there on a visit, as this
will make less work in house while we are short-handed. Do not, however,
give Aunt Gertrude this reason for sending them. Ask Robert if he will be
terribly lonely, and he says Oh no, he hopes I shall enjoy myself in
London. Spend a great deal of eloquence explaining that I am _not_
going to London to enjoy myself, but experience sudden fear that I am
resembling Mrs. Blenkinsop, and stop abruptly.

Robert says nothing.

_March 11th._--Rose wires that she will be delighted to put me up.
Cook, very unpleasantly, says, "I'm sure I hope you'll enjoy your
holiday, mum." Am precluded from making the kind of reply I should
_like_ to make, owing to grave fears that she should also give
notice. Tell her instead that I hope to "get settled" with a
house-parlourmaid before my return. Cook looks utterly incredulous and
says she is sure she hopes so too, because really, things have been so
unsettled lately. Pretend not to hear this and leave the kitchen.

Look through my clothes and find that I have nothing whatever to wear in
London. Read in _Daily Mirror_ that all evening dresses are worn
long, and realise with horror that not one of mine comes even half-way
down my legs.

_March 12th._--Collect major portion of my wardrobe and dispatch to
address mentioned in advertisement pages of _Time and Tide_ as
prepared to pay Highest Prices for Outworn Garments, cheque by return.
Have gloomy foreboding that six penny stamps by return will more
adequately represent value of my contribution, and am thereby impelled to
add Robert's old shooting-coat, mackintosh dating from 1907, and least
reputable woollen sweater. Customary struggle ensues between frank and
straightforward course of telling Robert What I have done, and less
straightforward, but more practical, decision to keep complete silence on
the point and let him make discovery for himself after parcel has left
the house. Conscience, as usual, is defeated, but nevertheless
unsilenced.

(Query: Would it not indicate greater strength of character, even if
lesser delicacy of feeling, not to spend so much time on regretting
errors of judgement and of behaviour? Reply almost certainly in the
affirmative. Brilliant, but nebulous, outline of powerful Article for
_Time and Tide_ here suggests itself: _Is Ruthlessness more
Profitable than Repentance?_ Failing article--for which time at the
moment is lacking, owing to departure of house-parlourmaid and necessity
of learning "Wreck of the Hesperus" to recite at Village Concert--would
this make suitable subject for Debate at Women's Institute? Feel doubtful
as to whether our Vicar's wife would not think subject-matter trenching
upon ground more properly belonging to our Vicar.)

Resign from Book of the Month Club, owing to wide and ever-increasing
divergence of opinion between us as to merits or demerits of recently
published fiction. Write them long and eloquent letter about this, but
remember after it is posted that I still owe them twelve shillings and
sixpence for Maurois's _Byron_.

_March 13th._--Vicky and Mademoiselle leave, in order to pay visit
to Aunt Gertrude. Mademoiselle becomes sentimental and says, "Ah, déjà je
languis pour notre re-tour!" As total extent of her absence at this stage
is about half-an-hour, and they have three weeks before them, feel that
this is not a spirit to be encouraged. See them into the train, when
Mademoiselle at once produces eau-de-Cologne in case either, or both,
should be ill, and come home again. House resembles the tomb, and the
gardener says that Miss Vicky seems such a little bit of a thing to be
sent right away like that, and it isn't as if she could write and
_tell_ me how she was getting on, either.

Go to bed feeling like a murderess.

_March 24th._--Rather inadequate Postal Order arrives, together with
white tennis coat trimmed with rabbit, which--says accompanying
letter--is returned as being unsaleable. Should like to know _why_.
Toy with idea of writing to _Time and Tide_'s Editor, enquiring if
every advertisement is subjected to personal scrutiny before insertion,
but decide that this, in the event of a reply, might involve me in
difficult explanations and diminish my _prestige_ as occasional
recipient of First Prize (divided) in Weekly Competition.

(_Mem_.: See whether tennis coat could be dyed and transformed into
evening cloak.)

Am unfortunately found at home by callers, Mr. and Mrs. White, who are
starting a Chicken-farm in the neighbourhood, and appear to have got
married on the expectation of making a fortune out of it. We talk about
chickens, houses, scenery, and the train-service between here and London.
I ask if they play tennis, and politely suggest that both are probably
brilliant performers. Mr. White staggers me by replying Oh, he wouldn't
say _that_, exactly--meaning that he would, if it didn't seem like
boasting. He enquires about Tournaments. Mrs. White is reminded of
Tournaments in which they have, or have not, come out victors in the
past. They refer to their handicap. Resolve never to ask the Whites to
play on our extremely inferior court.

Later on talk about politicians. Mr. White says that in _his_
opinion Lloyd George is clever, but Nothing Else. That's _all_, says
Mr. White impressively. Just Clever. I refer to Coalition Government and
Insurance Act, but Mr. White repeats firmly that both were brought about
by mere Cleverness. He adds that Baldwin is a thoroughly _honest_
man, and that Ramsay MacDonald is _weak_. Mrs. White supports him
with an irrelevant statement to the effect that the Labour Party must be
hand in glove with Russia, otherwise how would the Bolshevists dare to go
on like that?

She also suddenly adds that Prohibition and the Jews and Everything are
really the thin end of the wedge, don't I think so? I say Yes, I do, as
the quickest way of ending the conversation, and ask if she plays the
piano, to which she says No, but the Ukelele a little bit, and we talk
about local shops and the delivery of a Sunday paper.

(_N.B._ Amenities of conversation afford very, very curious study
sometimes, especially in the country.)

The Whites take their departure. Hope never to set eyes on either of them
again.

_March 15th._--Robert discovers absence of mackintosh dating from
1907. Says that he would "rather have lost a hundred pounds"--which I
know to be untrue. Unsuccessful evening follows. Cannot make up my mind
whether to tell him at once about shooting-coat and sweater, and get it
all over in one, or leave him to find out for himself when present
painful impression has had time to die away. Ray of light pierces
impenetrable gloom when Robert is driven to enquire if I can tell him "a
word for _calmer_ in seven letters" and I, after some thought,
suggest "_serener_"--which he says will do, and returns to
_Times_ Crossword Puzzle. Later he asks for famous mountain in
Greece, but does not accept my too-hasty offer of Mount Atlas, nor listen
to interesting explanation as to associative links between Greece,
Hercules, and Atlas, which I proffer. After going into it at some length,
I perceive that Robert is not attending, and retire to bed.

_March 17th._--Travel up to London with Barbara Blenkinsop--(wearing
new tweed)--who says she is going to spend a fortnight with old
school-friend at Streatham and is looking forward to the Italian Art
Exhibition. I say that I am, too, and ask after Mrs. B. Barbara says that
she is Wonderful. We discuss Girl Guides, and exchange surmises as to
reason why Mrs. T. at the Post Office is no longer on speaking terms with
Mrs. L. at the shop. Later on, conversation takes a more intellectual
turn, and we agree that the Parish Magazine needs Brightening Up. I
suggest a crossword puzzle, and Barbara says a Children's Page.
Paddington is reached just as we decide that it would be hopeless to try
and get a contribution to the Parish Magazine from anyone really
_good_, such as Shaw, Bennett, or Galsworthy.

I ask Barbara to tea at my club one day next week, she accepts, and we
part.

Met by Rose, who has a new hat, and says that _no one_ is wearing a
brim, which discourages me--partly because I have nothing _but_
brims, and partly because I know only too well that I shall look my worst
without one. Confide this fear to Rose, who says, Why not go to
well-known Beauty Culture Establishment, and have course of treatment
there? I look at myself in the glass, see much room for improvement, and
agree to this, only stipulating that all shall be kept secret as the
grave, as could not tolerate the idea of Lady B.'s comments, should she
ever come to hear of it. Make appointment by telephone. In the meantime,
says Rose, what about the Italian Art Exhibition? She herself has already
been four times. I say Yes, yes--it is one of the things I have come to
London _for_, but should prefer to go earlier in the day. Then, says
Rose, the first thing tomorrow morning? To this I reply, with every sign
of reluctance, that to-morrow morning _must_ be devoted to Registry
Offices. Well, says Rose, when _shall_ we go? Let us, I urge, settle
that a little later on, when I know better what I am doing. Can see that
Rose thinks anything but well of me, but she is too tactful to say more.
Quite realise that I shall have to go to the Italian Exhibition sooner or
later, and am indeed quite determined to do so, but feel certain that I
shall understand nothing about it when I do get there, and shall find
myself involved in terrible difficulties when asked my impressions
afterwards.

Rose's cook, as usual, produces marvellous dinner, and I remember with
shame and compassion that Robert, at home, is sitting down to minced beef
and macaroni cheese, followed by walnuts.

Rose says that she is taking me to dinner to-morrow, with distinguished
woman-writer who has marvellous collection of Jade, to meet still more
distinguished Professor (female) and others. Decide to go and buy an
evening dress to-morrow, regardless of overdraft.

_March 18th._--Very successful day, although Italian Art Exhibition
still unvisited. (Mem.: Positively _must_ go there before meeting
Barbara for tea at my club.)

Visit several Registry Offices, and am told that maids do not like the
country--which I know already--and that the wages I am offering are low.
Come away from there depressed, and decide to cheer myself up by
purchasing evening dress--which I cannot afford--with present-day
waist--which does not suit me. Select the Brompton Road, as likely to
contain what I want, and crawl up it, scrutinising windows. Come
face-to-face with Barbara Blenkinsop, who says, _How_ extraordinary
we should meet here, to which I reply that that is so often the way, when
one comes to London. She is, she tells me, just on her way to the Italian
Exhibition...I at once say Good-bye, and plunge into elegant
establishment with expensive-looking garments in the window.

Try on five dresses, but find judgement of their merits very difficult,
as hair gets wilder and wilder, and nose more devoid of powder. Am also
worried by extraordinary and tactless tendency of saleswoman to emphasise
the fact that all the colours I like are very trying by daylight, but
will be less so at night. Finally settle on silver tissue with large bow,
stipulate for its immediate delivery, am told that this is impossible,
reluctantly agree to carry it away with me in cardboard box, and go away
wondering if it wouldn't have been better to choose the black chiffon
instead.

Hope that Beauty Parlour experiment may enhance self-respect, at present
at rather low ebb, but am cheered by going into Fuller's and sending
boxes of chocolates to Robin and Vicky respectively. Add peppermint
creams for Mademoiselle by an afterthought, as otherwise she may find
herself _blessée_. Lunch on oxtail soup, lobster mayonnaise, and cup
of coffee, as being menu furthest removed from that obtainable at home.

Beauty Parlour follows. Feel that a good deal could be written on this
experience, and even contemplate--in connection with recent observations
exchanged between Barbara B. and myself--brightening the pages of our
Parish Magazine with result of my reflections, but on second thoughts
abandon this, as unlikely to appeal to the Editor (Our Vicar).

Am received by utterly terrifying person with dazzling complexion,
indigo-blue hair, and orange nails, presiding over reception room
downstairs, but eventually passed on to extremely pretty little creature
with auburn bob and charming smile. Am reassured. Am taken to discreet
curtained cubicle and put into long chair. Subsequent operations, which
take hours and hours, appear to consist of the removal of hundreds of
layers of dirt from my face. (These discreetly explained away by charming
operator as the result of "acidity".) She also plucks away portions of my
eyebrows. Very, very painful operation.

Eventually emerge more or less unrecognisable, and greatly improved. Lose
my head, and buy Foundation Cream, rouge, powder, lip-stick. Foresee
grave difficulty in reconciling Robert to the use of these appliances,
but decide not to think about this for the present.

Go back to Rose's flat in time to dress for dinner. She tells me that she
spent the afternoon at the Italian Exhibition.

_March 19th._--Rose takes me to dine with talented group of her
friends, connected with Feminist Movement. I wear new frock, and for once
in my life am satisfied with my appearance (but still regret great-aunt's
diamond ring, now brightening pawnbroker's establishment back-street
Plymouth). Am, however, compelled to make strong act of will in order to
banish all recollection of bills that will subsequently come in from
Beauty Parlour and dressmaker. Am able to succeed in this largely owing
to charms of distinguished Feminists, all as kind as possible. Well-known
Professor--(concerning whom I have previously consulted Rose as to the
desirability of reading up something about Molecules or other kindred
topic, for conversational purposes)--completely overcomes me by
producing, with a charming smile, two cigarette-cards, as she has heard
that I collect them for Robin. After this, throw all idea of Molecules to
the winds, and am happier for the rest of the evening in consequence.

Editor of well-known literary weekly also present, and actually remembers
that we met before at Literary Club dinner. I discover, towards the end
of the dinner, that she has not visited the Italian Exhibition--and give
Rose a look that I hope she takes to heart.

Cocktails, and wholly admirable dinner, further brighten the evening. I
sit next Editor, and she rather rashly encourages me to give my opinion
of her paper. I do so freely, thanks to cocktail and Editor's charming
manners, which combine to produce in me the illusion that my words are
witty, valuable, and thoroughly well worth listening to. (Am but too well
aware that later in the night I shall wake up in cold sweat, and view
this scene in retrospect with very different feelings as to my own part
in it.)

Rose and I take our leave just before midnight, sharing taxi with very
well-known woman dramatist. (Should much like Lady B. to know this, and
have every intention of making casual mention to her of it at earliest
possible opportunity.)

Offices, less

_March 20th._--More Registry Offices, less success than ever.

Barbara Blenkinsop comes to tea with me at my club, and says that
Streatham is very gay, and that her friends took her to a dance last
night and a Mr. Crosbie Carruthers drove her home afterwards in his car.
We then talk about clothes--dresses all worn long in the evening--this
graceful, but not hygienic--women will never again submit to long skirts
in the day-time--most people growing their hair--but eventually Barbara
reverts to Mr. C. C. and asks if I think a girl makes herself cheap by
allowing a man friend to take her out to dinner in Soho? I say No, not at
all, and inwardly decide that Vicky would look nice as bridesmaid in blue
taffetas, with little wreath of Banksia roses.

A letter from dear Robin, forwarded from home, arrives to-night. He says,
wouldn't a motor tour in the Easter holidays be great fun, and a boy at
school called Briggs is going on one. (Briggs is the only son of
millionaire parents, owning two Rolls-Royces and any number of
chauffeurs.) Feel that it would be unendurable to refuse this trustful
request, and decide that I can probably persuade Robert into letting me
drive the children to the far side of the county in the old Standard. Can
call this modest expedition a motor tour if we stay the night at a pub.
and return the next day.

At the same time realise that, financial situation being what it is, and
moreover time rapidly approaching when great-aunt's diamond ring must
either be redeemed, or relinquished for ever, there is nothing for it but
to approach Bank on subject of an overdraft.

Am never much exhilarated at this prospect, and do not in the least find
that it becomes less unpleasant with repetition, but rather the contrary.
Experience customary difficulty in getting to the point, and Bank Manager
and I discuss weather, political situation, and probable Starters for the
Grand National with passionate suavity for some time. Inevitable pause
occurs, and we look at one another across immense expanse of pink
blotting-paper. Irrelevant impulse rises in me to ask if he has other
supply, for use, in writing-table drawer, or if fresh pad is brought in
whenever a client calls. (Strange divagations of the human brain under
the stress of extreme nervousness presents itself here as interesting
topic for speculation. Should like to hear opinion of Professor met last
night on this point. Subject far preferable to Molecules.)

Long, and rather painful, conversation follows. Bank Manager kind, but if
he says the word "security" once, he certainly says it twenty times. Am,
myself, equally insistent with "temporary accommodation only", which I
think sounds thoroughly businesslike, and at the same time optimistic as
to speedy repayment. Just as I think we are over the worst, Bank Manager
reduces me to spiritual pulp by suggesting that we should see how the
Account Stands at the Moment. Am naturally compelled to agree to this
with air of well-bred and detached amusement, but am in reality well
aware that the Account Stands--or, more accurately, totters--on a Debit
Balance of Thirteen Pounds, two shillings, and tenpence. Large sheet of
paper, bearing this impressive statement, is presently brought in and
laid before us.

Negotiations resumed.

Eventually emerge into the street with purpose accomplished, but feeling
completely unstrung for the day. Rose is kindness personified, produces
Bovril and an excellent lunch, and agrees with me that it is All Nonsense
to say that Wealth wouldn't mean Happiness, because we know quite well
that it _would_.

_March 21st._--Express to Rose serious fear that I shall lose my
reason if no house-parlourmaid materialises. Rose, as usual, sympathetic,
but can suggest nothing that I have not already tried. We go to a Sale in
order to cheer ourselves up, and I buy yellow linen tennis-frock--£1 9s.
6d.--on strength of newly-arranged overdraft, but subsequently suffer
from the conviction that I am taking the bread out of the mouths of Robin
and Vicky.

Rather painful moment occurs when I suggest the Italian Exhibition to
Rose, who replies--after a peculiar silence--that it is now _over_.
Can think of nothing whatever to say, and do not care for dear Rose's
expression, so begin at once to discuss new novels with as much
intelligence as I can muster.

_March 22nd._--Completely amazed by laconic postcard from
Robert to say that local Registry Office can supply us with
house-parlour_man_, and if I am experiencing difficulty in finding
anyone, had we not better engage him? I telegraph back Yes, and then feel
that I have made a mistake, but Rose says No, and refuses to let me rush
out and telegraph again, for which, on subsequent calmer reflection, I
feel grateful to her--and am sure that Robert would be still more so,
owing to well-authenticated masculine dislike of telegrams.

Spend the evening writing immense letter to Robert enclosing list of
duties of house-parlourman. (Jib at thought of being called by him in the
mornings with early tea, and consult Rose, who says boldly, Think of
waiters in Foreign Hotels!--which I do, and am reminded at once of many
embarrassing episodes which I would rather forget.) Also send detailed
instructions to Robert regarding the announcement of this innovation to
Cook. Rose again takes up modern and fearless attitude, and says that
Cook, mark her words, will be delighted.

I spend much of the night thinking over the whole question of running the
house successfully, and tell myself--not by any means for the first
time--that my abilities are very, very deficient in this direction. Just
as the realisation of this threatens to overwhelm me altogether, I fall
asleep.

_March 25th._--Return home, to Robert, Helen Wills, and new
house-parlourman, who is--I now learn for the first time--named
Fitzsimmons. I tell Robert that it is impossible that he should be called
this. Robert replies, Why not? Can only say that if Robert cannot see
this for himself, explanation will be useless. Then, says Robert, no doubt
we can call him by his first name. This, on investigation, turns out to
be Howard. Find myself quite unable to cope with any of it, and the whole
situation is met by my never calling the house-parlourman anything at
all except "you" and speaking of him to Robert as "Howard Fitzsimmons", in
inverted commas as though intending to be funny. Very unsatisfactory
solution.

Try to tell Robert all about London--(with exception of Italian
Exhibition, which I do not mention)--but Aladdin lamp flares up, which
interferes, and have also to deal with correspondence concerning Women's
Institute Monthly Meeting, replacement of broken bedroom
tumblers--attributed to Ethel--disappearance of one pyjama-jacket and two
table-napkins in the wash, and instructions to Howard Fitzs. concerning
his duties. (_Mem_.: Must certainly make it crystal-clear that
acceptable formula, when receiving an order, is not "Right-oh!" Cannot,
at the moment, think how to word this, but must work it out, and then
deliver with firmness and precision.)

Robert very kind about London, but perhaps rather more interested in my
having met Barbara Blenkinsop--which, after all, I can do almost any day
in the village--than in my views on _Nine till Six_ (the best play I
have seen for ages) or remarkable increase of traffic in recent years.
Tell Robert by degrees about my new clothes. He asks when I expect to
wear them, and I reply that one never knows--which is only too true--and
conversation closes.

Write long letter to Angela, for the express purpose of referring
casually to Rose's distinguished friends, met in London.

_March 27th._--Angela replies to my letter, but says little about
distinguished society in which I have been moving, and asks for full
account of my impressions of Italian Exhibition. She and William, she
says, went up on purpose to see it, and visited it three times. Can only
say--but do not, of course, do so--that William must have been dragged
there by the hair of his head.

_March 28th._--Read admirable, but profoundly discouraging, article
in _Time and Tide_ relating to Bernard Shaw's women, but applying to
most of us. Realise--not for the first time--that intelligent women can
perhaps best perform their duty towards their own sex by devastating
process of telling them the truth about themselves. At the same time,
cannot feel that I shall really enjoy hearing it. Ultimate paragraph of
article, moreover, continues to haunt me most unpleasantly with reference
to own undoubted vulnerability where Robin and Vicky are concerned. Have
very often wondered if Mothers are not rather A Mistake altogether, and
now definitely come to the conclusion that they _are_.

Interesting speculation as to how they might best be replaced interrupted
by necessity of seeing that Fitzs. is turning out spare-bedroom according
to instructions. Am unspeakably disgusted at finding him sitting in
spare-room armchair, with feet on the window-sill. He says that he is
"not feeling very well". Am much more taken aback than he is, and lose my
head to the extent of replying: "Then go and be it in your own room."
Realise afterwards that this might have been better worded.

_April 2nd._--Barbara calls. Can she, she says, speak to me in
_confidence?_ I assure her that she can, and at once put Helen Wills
and kitten out of the window in order to establish confidential
atmosphere. Sit, seething with excitement, in the hope that I am at least
going to be told that Barbara is engaged. Try to keep this out of sight,
and to maintain expression of earnest and sympathetic attention only,
whilst Barbara says that it is sometimes very difficult to know which way
Duty lies, that she has always thought a true woman's highest vocation is
home-making, and that the love of a Good Man is the crown of life. I say
Yes, Yes, to all of this. (Discover, on thinking it over, that I do not
agree with any of it, and am shocked at my own extraordinary duplicity.)


Barbara at length admits that Crosbie has asked her to marry him--he did
it, she says, at the Zoo--and go out with him as his wife to the
Himalayas. This, says Barbara, is where all becomes difficult. She may be
old-fashioned--no doubt she is--but can she leave her mother alone? No,
she cannot. Can she, on the other hand, give up dear Crosbie, who has
never loved a girl before, and says that he never will again? No, she
cannot.

Barbara weeps. I kiss her. Howard Fitzsimmons selects this moment to walk
in with the tea, at which I sit down again in confusion and begin to talk
about the Vicarage daffodils being earlier than ours, just as Barbara
launches into the verdict in the Podmore Case. We gyrate uneasily in and
out of these topics while Howard Fitzsimmons completes his preparations
for tea. Atmosphere ruined, and destruction completed by my own necessary
enquiries as to Barbara's wishes in the matter of milk, sugar,
bread-and-butter, and so on. (_Mem_.: Must speak to Cook about
sending in minute segment of sponge-cake, remains of one which, to my
certain recollection, made its first appearance more than ten days ago.
Also, why perpetual and unappetising procession of small rock-cakes?)

Robert comes in, he talks of swine-fever, all further confidences become
impossible. Barbara takes her leave immediately after tea, only asking if
I could look in on her mother and have a Little Talk? I reluctantly agree
to do so, and she mounts her bicycle and rides off. Robert says, That
girl holds herself well, but it's a pity she has those ankles.

_April 4th._--Go to see old Mrs. Blenkinsop. She is, as usual,
swathed in shawls, but has exchanged _Lord Beaconsfield_ for
_Froude and Carlyle_. She says that I am very good to come and see a
poor old woman, and that she often wonders how it is that so many of the
younger generation seem to find their way to her by instinct. Is it, she
suggests, because her _heart_ has somehow kept young, in spite of
her grey hair and wrinkles, ha-ha-ha, and so she has always been able to
find the Silver Lining, she is thankful to say. I circuitously approach
the topic of Barbara. Mrs. B. at once says that the young are very hard
and selfish. This is natural, perhaps, but it saddens her. Not on her own
account--no, no, no--but because she cannot bear to think of what Barbara
will have to suffer from remorse when it is Too Late.

Feel a strong inclination to point out that this is _not_ finding
the Silver Lining, but refrain. Long monologue from old Mrs. B. follows.
Main points that emerge are: (a) That Mrs. B. has not got very many more
years to spend amongst us; (b) that all her life has been given up to
others, but that she deserves no credit for this, as it is just the way
she is made; (c) that all she wants is to see her Barbara happy, and it
matters nothing at all that she herself should be left alone and helpless
in her old age, and no one is to give a thought to that for a moment.
Finally, that it has never been her way to think of herself or of her own
feelings. People have often said to her that they believe she _has_
no self--simply, none at all.

Pause, which I do not attempt to fill, ensues.

We return to Barbara, and Mrs. B. says it is very natural that a girl
should be wrapped up in her own little concerns. I feel that we are
getting no further, and boldly introduce the name of Crosbie Carruthers.
Terrific effect on Mrs. B., who puts her hand on her heart, leans back,
and begins to gasp and turn blue. She is sorry, she pants, to be so
foolish, but it is now many nights since she has had any sleep at all,
and the strain is beginning to tell. I must forgive her. I hastily do
forgive her, and depart.

Very, very unsatisfactory interview.

Am told, on my way home, by Mrs. S. of the _Cross and Keys_, that a
gentleman is staying there who is said to be engaged to Miss Blenkinsop,
but the old lady won't hear of it, and he seems such a nice gentleman
too, though perhaps not quite as young as some, and do I think the
Himalayas would be All Right if there was a baby coming along? Exchange
speculations and comments with Mrs. S. for some time before recollecting
that the whole thing is supposed to be private, and that in any case
gossip is undesirable.

Am met at home by Mademoiselle with intelligent enquiry as to the
prospects of Miss Blenkinsop's immediate marriage, and the attitude
adopted by old Mrs. B. "Le coeur d'une mère," says Mademoiselle
sentimentally. Even the infant Vicky suddenly demands if that gentleman
at the _Cross and Keys_ is really Miss Blenkinsop's True Love? At
this, Mademoiselle screams, "Ah, mon Dieu, ces enfants anglais!" and is
much upset at impropriety of Vicky's language.

Even Robert enquires What All This Is, about Barbara Blenkinsop? I
explain, and he returns--very, very briefly--that old Mrs. Blenkinsop
ought to be Shot--which gets us no further, but meets with my entire
approval.

_April 10th._--Entire parish now seething with the _affaire_
Blenkinsop. Old Mrs. B. falls ill, and retires to bed. Barbara bicycles
madly up and down between her mother and the garden of the _Cross and
Keys_, where C. C. spends much time reading copies of _The Times of
India_ and smoking small cigars. We are all asked by Barbara What she
Ought to Do, and all give different advice. Deadlock appears to have been
reached, when C. C. suddenly announces that he is summoned to London and
must have an answer One Way or the Other immediately.

Old Mrs. B.--who has been getting better and taking Port--instantly gets
worse again and says that she will not long stand in the way of dear
Barbara's happiness.

Period of fearful stress sets in, and Barbara and C. C. say Good-bye in
the front sitting-room of the _Cross and Keys_. They have, says
Barbara in tears, parted For Ever, and Life is Over, and will I take the
Guides' Meeting for her to-night--which I agree to do.

_April 12th._--Return of Robin for