Always delighted to see dear Mary—so clever and amusing, and able to write stories, which actually get published and paid for—but very uneasy about colour of my hair, which is not wearing off in the least. Think seriously of keeping a hat on all through lunch, but this, on the whole, would look even more unnatural. Besides, could not hope that it would pass without observation from Vicky, let alone Robert.
Later.—Worst fears realised, as to hair. Dear Mary, always so observant, gazes at it in nerve-shattering silence but says nothing, till I am driven to make half-hearted explanation. Her only comment is that she cannot imagine why anybody should deliberately make themselves look ten years older than they need. Feel that, if she wishes to discourage further experiments on my part, this observation could scarcely be improved upon. Change the subject, and talk about the children. Mary most sympathetic, and goes so far as to say that my children have brains, which encourages me to tell anecdotes about them until I see Robert looking at me, just as I get to Robin's precocious taste for really good literature. By curious coincidence second post brings letter from Robin, saying that he wishes to collect cigarette-cards and will I send him all the types of National Beauty, Curious Beaks, and Famous Footballers, that I can find. Make no comment on this singular request aloud.
Mary stays to tea and we talk about H. G. Wells, Women's Institutes, infectious illness, and Journey's End. Mary says she cannot go and see this latter because she always cries at the theatre. I say, Then once more will make no difference. Discussion becomes involved, and we drop it. Vicky comes in and immediately offers to recite. Can see that Mary (who has three children of her own) does not in the least want to hear her, but she feigns enthusiasm politely. Vicky recites: "Maître Corbeau sur un arbre perché"—(N.B. Suggest to Mademoiselle that Vicky's repertory should be enlarged. Feel sure that I have heard Maitre Corbeau, alternately with La Cigale et la Fourmi, some eight hundred times within the last six months.)
After Mary has gone, Robert looks at me and suddenly remarks: "Now that's what I call an attractive woman." Am gratified at his appreciation of talented friend, but should like to be a little clearer regarding exact significance of emphasis on the word that. Robert, however, says no more, and opportunity is lost as Ethel comes in to say Cook is sorry she's run right out of milk, but if I will come to the store-cupboard she thinks there's a tin of Ideal, and she'll make do with that.
January 25th.—Attend a Committee Meeting in the village to discuss how to raise funds for Village Hall. Am asked to take the chair. Begin by saying that I know how much we all have this excellent object at heart, and that I feel sure there swill be no lack of suggestions as to best method of obtaining requisite sum of money. Pause for suggestions, which is met with death-like silence. I say, There are so many ways to choose from—implication being that I attribute silence to plethora of ideas, rather than to absence of them. (Note: Curious and rather depressing, to see how frequently the pursuit of Good Works leads to apparently unavoidable duplicity.) Silence continues, and I say Well, twice, and Come, come, once. (Sudden impulse to exclaim, "I lift up my finger and I say Tweet, Tweet," is fortunately overcome.) At last: extract a suggestion of a concert from Mrs. L. (whose son plays the violin) and a whist-drive from Miss P. (who won Ladies' First Prize at the last one). Florrie P. suggests a dance and is at once reminded that it will be Lent. She says that Lent isn't what it was. Her mother says the Vicar is one that holds with Lent, and always has been. Someone else says That reminds her, has anyone heard that old Mr. Small passed away last night? We all agree that eighty-six is a great age. Mrs. L. says that on her mother's side of the family, there is an aunt of ninety-eight. Still with us, she adds. The aunt's husband, on the other hand, was gathered just before his sixtieth birthday. Everyone says, You can't ever tell, not really. There is a suitable pause before we go back to Lent and the Vicar. General opinion that a concert isn't like a dance, and needn't—says Mrs. L.—interfere.
On this understanding, we proceed. Various familiar items—piano solo, recitation, duet, and violin solo from Master L.—are all agreed upon. Someone says that Mrs. F. and Miss H. might do a dialogue, and has to be reminded that they are no longer on speaking terms, owing to strange behaviour of Miss H. about her bantams. Ah, says Mrs. S., it wasn't only bantams was at the bottom of it, there's two sides to every question. (There are at least twenty to this one, by the time we've done with it.)
Sudden appearance of our Vicar's wife, who says apologetically that she made a mistake in the time. I beg her to take the chair. She refuses. I insist. She says No, no, positively not, and takes it.
We begin all over again, but general attitude towards Lent much less elastic.
Meeting ends at about five o'clock. Our Vicar's wife walks home with me, and tells me that I look tired. I ask her to come in and have tea. No, she says, no, it's too kind of me, but she must go on to the far end of the parish. She remains standing at the gate telling me about old Small—eighty-six a great age—till quarter-to-six, when she departs, saying that she cannot think why I am looking so tired.
February 11th.—Robin writes again about cigarette-cards. I send him all those I have collected, and Vicky produces two which she has obtained from the garden-boy. Find that this quest grows upon one, and am apt now, when in Plymouth or any other town, to scan gutters, pavements, and tram-floors in search of Curious Beaks, Famous Football Players, and the like. Have even gone so far as to implore perfect stranger, sitting opposite me in train, not to throw cigarette-card out of the window, but give it to me instead. Perfect stranger does so with an air of courteous astonishment, and as he asks for no explanation, am obliged to leave him under the impression that I have merely been trying to force him into conversation with me.
(Note: Could not short article, suitable for Time and Tide, be worked up on some such lines as: Lengths to which Mother-love may legitimately go? On second thoughts abandon the idea, as being faintly reminiscent of démodé enquiry: Do Shrimps make Good Mothers?)
Hear that Lady Boxe has returned from South of France and is entertaining house-party. She sends telephone message by the butler, asking me to tea to-morrow. I accept. (Why?)
February 12th.—Insufferable behaviour of Lady B. Find large party, all of whom are directed at front door to go to the Hard Courts, where, under inadequate shelter, in Arctic temperature, all are compelled to watch young men in white flannels keeping themselves warm by banging a little ball against a wall. Lady B. wears an emerald-green leather coat with fur collar and cuffs. I, having walked down, have on ordinary coat and skirt, and freeze rapidly. Find myself next unknown lady who talks wistfully about the tropics. Can well understand this. On other side elderly gentleman, who says conversationally that this Naval Disarmament is All his Eye. This contribution made to contemporary thought, he says no more. Past five o'clock before we are allowed to go in to tea, by which time am only too well aware that my face is blue and my hands purple. Lady B. asks me at tea how the children are, and adds, to the table at large, that I am "A Perfect Mother". Am naturally avoided, conversationally, after this, by everybody at the tea-table. Later on, Lady B. tells us about South of France. She quotes repartees made by herself in French, and then translates them.
(Unavoidable Query presents itself here: Would a verdict of Justifiable Homicide delivered against their mother affect future careers of children unfavourably?)
Discuss foreign travel with unknown, but charming, lady in black. We are delighted with one another—or so I confidently imagine—arid she begs me to go and see her if I am ever in her neighbourhood. I say that I will—but am well aware that courage will fail me when it comes to the point. Pleasant sense of mutual sympathy suddenly and painfully shattered by my admitting—in reply to direct enquiry—that I am not a gardener—which the lady in black is, to an extent that apparently amounts to monomania. She remains charming, but quite ceases to be delighted with me, and I feel discouraged.
(N.B. Must try to remember