21 September 1925 – 27 September 1925

How my handwriting goes down hill! Another sacrifice to the Hogarth Press. Yet what I owe the Hogarth Press is barely paid by the whole of my handwriting. Haven’t I just written to Herbert Fisher refusing to do a book for the Home University Series on Post-Victorian?—knowing that I can write a book, a better book, a book off my own bat, for the Press if I wish! To think of being battened down in the hold of those University Dons fairly makes my blood run cold. Yet I’m the only woman in England free to write what I like. The others must be thinking of series and editors. Yesterday I heard from Harcourt Brace that Mrs. D. and C.R. are selling 148 and 73 weekly—isn’t that a surprising rate for the fourth month? Doesn’t it portend a bathroom and a w.c., either here or Southease? I am writing in the watery blue sunset, the repentance of an ill tempered morose day, which vanished, the clouds, I have no doubt, showing gold over the downs, and leaving a soft gold fringe on the top there.