31 January 1916 – 6 February 1916

Since I last wrote--a month ago--I have recovered my buoyancy after a blow which kept me under water so long I thought I should never come up and be happy again.... I was reciting my woes to R----, and gaining much relief thereby, when we espied another crony on the other side of the street, crossed over at once, bandied words with him and then walked on, picking up the thread of my lugubrious story just where I had left off--secretly staggered at my emotional agility. I've got to this now,--I simply don't care.

"And she draiglet all her petticoatie, Coming thro' the rye." These words have a ridiculous fascination for me; I cannot resist their saccharine, affectionate, nay amorous jingle and keep repeating them aloud all over the house--as Lamb once kept reciting "Rose Aylmer."