The Provincial Lady Series. E. M. Delafield

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 douching, 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 school. 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