The Provincial Lady Series. E. M. Delafield

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