attic, owing to humane scruples about disturbing H. Wills and family.
September 20th.—Letter from County Secretary of adjoining County, telling me that she knows how busy I am—which I'm certain she doesn't—but Women's Institutes of Chick, Little March, and Crimpington find themselves in terrible difficulty owing to uncertainty about next month's speaker. Involved fragments about son coming, or not coming, home on leave from Patagonia, and daughter ill—but not dangerously—at Bromley, Kent—follow. President is away—(further fragment, about President being obliged to visit aged relative while aged relative's maid is on holiday)—and County Secretary does not know what to do. What she does do, however, is to suggest that I should be prepared to come and speak at all three Institute meetings, if—as she rather strangely puts it—the worst comes to the worst. Separate half-sheet of paper gives details about dates, times, and bus between Chick and Little March, leading on to doctor's sister's two-seater, at cross-roads between Little March and Crimpington Hill. At Crimpington, County Secretary concludes triumphantly, I shall be put up for the night by Lady Magdalen Crimp—always so kind, and such a friend to the Movement—at Crimpington Hall. P.S. Travel talks always popular, but anything I like will be delightful. Chick very keen about Folk Lore, Little March more on the Handicraft side. But anything I like. P.P.S. Would I be so kind as to judge Recitation Competition at Crimpington?
I think this over for some time, and decide to write and say that I will do it, as Robin will have returned to school next week, and should like to distract my mind. Tell Mademoiselle casually that I may be going on a short tour, speaking, and she is suitably impressed. Vicky enquires: "Like a menagerie, mummie?" which seems to me very extraordinary simile, though innocently meant. I reply, "No, not in the least like a menagerie," and Mademoiselle adds, officiously, "More like a mission." Am by no means at one with her here, but have no time to go further into the subject, as Gladys summons me to prolonged discussion with the Laundry—represented by man in white coat at the back gate—concerning cotton sheet, said to be one of a pair, but which has been returned in solitary widowhood. The Laundry has much to say about this, and presently Cook, gardener, Mademoiselle, Vicky, and unidentified boy apparently attached to Laundry, have all gathered round. Everyone except boy supports Gladys by saying "That's right" to everything she asserts, and I eventually leave them to it. Evidently all takes time, as it is not till forty minutes later that I see gardener slowly returning to his work, and hear van driving away.
Go up to attic and inspect bulb-bowls, but nothing to be seen. Cannot decide whether they require water or not, but think perhaps better be on the safe side, so give them some. Make note in little green book to this effect, as am determined to keep full record of entire procedure.
September 22nd.—Invitation from Lady B.—note delivered by hand, wait reply—to Robert and myself to come and dine tonight. Reads more like a Royal Command, and no suggestion that short notice may be inconvenient. Robert out, and I act with promptitude and firmness on own responsibility, and reply that we are already engaged for dinner.
(Query: Will this suggest convivial evening at neighbouring Rectory, or rissoles and cocoa with old Mrs. Blenkinsop and Cousin Maud? Can conceive of no other alternatives.)
Telephone rings in a peremptory manner just as I am reading aloud enchanting book, The Exciting Family by M. D. Hillyard—(surely occasional contributor to Time and Tide?)—and I rush to dining-room to deal with it. (N.B. Must really overcome foolish and immature tendency to feel that any telephone-call may be prelude to (a) announcement of a fortune or, alternatively, (6) news of immense and impressive calamity.)
On snatching up receiver, unmistakable tones of Lady B. are heard—at once suggesting perhaps rather ill-natured, but not unjustifiable, comparison with a pea-hen. What, she enquires, is all this nonsense? Of course we must dine to-night—she won't hear of a refusal. Besides, what else can we possibly be doing, unless it's Meetings, and if so, we can cut them for once.
Am at once invaded by host of improbable inspirations: e.g. that the Lord-Lieutenant of the County and his wife are dining here informally, or that Rose's Viscountess is staying with us and refuses either to be left alone or to be taken to Lady B.'s—(which I know she would at once suggest)—or even that, really, Robert and I have had so many late nights recently that we cannot face another one—but do not go so far as to proffer any of them aloud. Am disgusted, instead, to hear myself saying weakly that Robin goes back to school day after tomorrow, and we do not like to go out on one of his last few evenings at home. (This may be true so far as I am concerned, but can imagine no suggestion less likely to be endorsed by Robert, and trust that he may never come to hear of it.) In any case, it instantly revives long-standing determination of Lady B.'s to establish me with reputation for being a Perfect Mother, and she at once takes advantage of it.
I return to The Exciting Family in a state of great inward fury.
September 24th.—Frightful welter of packing, putting away, and earnest consultations of School List. Robin gives everybody serious injunctions about not touching anything whatever in his bedroom—which looks like inferior pawnbroking establishment at stocktaking time—and we all more or less commit ourselves to leaving it alone till Christmas holidays—which is completely out of the question.
He is taken away by Robert in the car, looking forlorn and infantile, and Vicky roars. I beseech her to desist at once, but am rebuked by Mademoiselle, who says, "Ah, elle a tant de coeur!" in tone which implies that she cannot say as much for myself.
October 1.—Tell Robert about proposed short tour to Chick, Little March, and Crimpington, on behalf of W. Is. He says little, but that little not very enthusiastic. I spend many hours—or so it seems—looking out Notes for Talks, and trying to remember anecdotes that shall be at once funny and suitable. (This combination rather unusual.)
Pack small bag, search frantically all over writing-table, bedroom, and drawing-room for W.I. Badge—which is at last discovered by Mademoiselle in remote corner of drawer devoted to stockings—and take my departure. Robert drives me to station, and I beg that he will keep an eye on the bulbs whilst I am away.
October 2nd.—Bus from Chick conveys me to Little March, after successful meeting last night, at which I discourse on Amateur Theatricals, am applauded, thanked by President in the chair—name inaudible—applauded once more, and taken home by Assistant Secretary, who is putting me up for the night. We talk about the Movement—Annual Meeting at Blackpool perhaps a mistake, why not Bristol or Plymouth?—difficulty of thinking out new Programmes for monthly meetings, and really magnificent performance of Chick at recent Folk-dancing Rally, at which Institute members called upon to go through "Gathering Peas-cods" no less than three times—two of Chick's best performers, says Assistant Secretary proudly, being grandmothers. I express astonished admiration, and we go on to Village Halls, Sir Oswald Mosley, and methods of removing ink-stains from linen. Just as Assistant Secretary—who is unmarried and lives in nice little cottage—has escorted me to charming little bedroom, she remembers that I am eventually going on to Crimpington, and embarks on interesting scandal about two members of Institute there, and unaccountable disappearance of one member's name from Committee. This keeps us up till eleven o'clock, when she begs me to say nothing whatever about her having mentioned the affair, which was all told her in strictest confidence, and we part.
Reach Little March, via the bus—which is old, and rattles—in time for lunch. Doctor's sister meets me—elderly lady with dog—and talks about hunting. Meeting takes place at three o'clock, in g delightful Hut, and am impressed by business-like and efficient atmosphere. Doctor's sister, in the chair, introduces me—unluckily my name eludes her at eleventh hour, but I hastily supply it and she says, "Of course, of course"—and I launch out into A Visit to Switzerland. As soon as I have finished, elderly member surges up from front row and says that this has been particularly interesting to her, as she once lived in Switzerland for nearly fourteen years and
