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:
