23 March 1914 – 29 March 1914

When I get by myself, I am always more or less actively miserable. If it were not for J. I should live quite alone. It's raining ; I have a cold and my fire has gone out. Sparrows outside are cheeping like chick- ens. Oh heavens ! what a different scene the sound re- calls! The warm sun, and the tiny yellow balls, so dainty, treading down the grass blades, and Sheehan giving me the smallest chick wrapped in a flannel to carry to the kitchen fire.

Mother's birthday. I wrote at 2 o'clock and got up and sat on the box of the window thinking of her. I would love to see her again and the little frown between her brows, and to hear her voice. But I don't think I will. My memory of her is so complete that I don't think it will be disturbed. The P.'s dined with us last night. It was dull. They are worthy and pleasant, but Mrs. P. is a weight, and P, makes me feel old. He only likes me because of what I used to be like, and he thinks the ' normal ' me abnormally quiet and a bit lifeless. I don't want to see them again. Thank God ! there's a sprinkle of sun to-day. The river to-night was low and the little walls and towers and chimneys on the opposite bank black against the night. I keep thinking of Paris and money. I am getting all my spring out of the sunsets.

L.M. and I travelled miles to-day. We sat in a bus talking, and now and again when I looked up, I kept seeing the squares with their butterfly leaves just ready to fly. We met near the old haunts — Queen Anne Street — and walked in one of the little lanes and short cuts that we know so well — side by side, talking. " Let me tie your veil," and I stop ; she ties it and we walk on again. In the Persian shop she leaned against a red and black silk curtain. She was very pale, and her black hat looked enormous, and she kept wanting to buy me " these things — feel how soft they are," and smiling and speaking just above her breath for tiredness.

New Moon, 6h. 9m. p.m. (I didn't see it, though). L.M. and I took the tram to Clapham. She left at about 9 p.m. having dressed me. When I leave her hands I feel hung with wreaths. A silly, unreal evening at Miss R.'s. Pretty rooms and pretty people, pretty coffee, and cigarettes out of a silver tankard. A sort of sham Meredith atmosphere lurking. A.R. has a pert, nice face — that was all. I was wretched. I have nothing to say to l charming ' women. I feel like a cat among tigers. The ladies, left to themselves, talked ghosts and child-beds. I am wretchedly unhappy among everybody — and the silence . . .

I am writing for L.M. to come. She's very late. Everything is in a state of suspense — even birds and chimneys. Frightened in 'private. At the last moment L.M. never said Good-bye at all but took the fiddle and ran. I walked away down some narrow streets ; large drops of rain fell. I passed some packing warehouses, and the delicious smell of fresh wood and straw reminded me of Wellington. I could almost fancy a sawmill. In the evening the C.'s, and the little parrot swinging on a wire.

Put my clothes in order. The crocuses in Battersea reminded me of autumn in Bavaria. The ground is wet, and it looks as though winter were go- ing— the grass long and green among the trampled flowers. Birds are far more savage-looking than the wildest beasts. Thinking of a forest of wild birds — or if the birds ' turned ' even here. I want to get alone. The magnolia conspicua is in bud.

1 am going to start a play to-day.