13 July 1914 – 19 July 1914

Have finished my essay. But am written out--obviously. To-night I struggled with another, and spent two hours sucking the end of my pen. But after painfully mountainous parturition, all I brought forth were the two ridiculous mice of one meretricious trope and one grammatical solecism. I can sometimes sit before a sheet of paper, pen in hand, unable to produce a word.

For a walk with R---- in the country, calling for tea at his Uncle's house at ----. Played clock golf and made the acquaintance of Miss ----, a tall, statuesque lady, with golden hair, as graceful as an antelope and very comely, her two dear little feet clad in white shoes peeping out (as R---- said) like two white mice one after the other as she moved across the lawn. Coming home I said to R---- histrionically, "Some golden-haired little boy will some day rest his head upon her bosom, beautiful in line and depth, all unconscious of his luck or of his part in a beautiful picture--would that I were the father to make that group a fait accompli." R----, with meticulous accuracy, always refers to her as "that elegant virgin."