Next morning. I went out to lunch yesterday at a very good little brasserie, overlooking Place du Châtelet, and cheap, quite as cheap as Chartier, and frequented only by old men and a priest or two. Afterwards, like a fool, I took the métro to the Palais Royal and went to look for Smith's to see if they had The Golden Bowl. Oh, that walk—it stretched for miles, and each moment I thought it was going to end. My leg finally trailed after me like a tired child. And they had not got The Golden Bowl. So I came home and worked and did not go out again. We had the thunder last night. To-day it is silvery, and now and then some rain falls….

I don't want to complain, but I do think my leg is a bit off, don't you? It hurts like billy-o to-day.