I have been quite unable to write these last few days—with acute neuritis in my arm and shoulder—Another New Dish. That's the worst of illness. If one could only choose one dish à la carte—eat it—make a grimace over it page 217 and throw the plate away. But it's this infernally boring table d'hôte with all these little side dishes and kickshaws that you're simply not allowed to refuse—It is distracting and sometimes I feel it never will end—

I have felt so cut off from the world without a pen. I lay and read The Egoist. It seemed to me marvellously good in its way—and I had quite forgotten how much Meredith enjoyed writing. It's delightful how this enjoyment comes through—he shares your laugh, catches your eye, sees the point just as you do. But really a very difficult book for Englishmen to read without twinging.

But when I read Rhoda Fleming, and that seemed to me so false, so preposterous—one could only groan for it—and it's so odious. All this lingering over the idea of a lily white, white as snow jeune fille in the embrace of an ugly, vicious, little old man made me want to cry like Lawrence that “His sex was all wrong”—But he is a big man, and he can write wonders.

These strange, wild evenings shaken with wind and rain have something of Spring in them. One can't help feeling that to-morrow the first green will be there, and perhaps you will meet a little child with a fist of wan daffodils—It does not matter dreadfully that it is not true. If Peace comes I really do feel that the winter will not be real winter, it can't be cold and dark and malignant. A miracle will happen.

But I wish the horrible old knitting women at Versailles would hurry, hurry—Do you see that President Wilson is coming to attend the Conference in Person—Already—I fondly dream of—Oh, such a meeting! A sort of glorified Christina Pontifex interview between us. I am afraid I am staying in bed too long!

Lawrence has sent me to-day a new play of his —very long, just written. I must read it. I have glanced inside and it looks black with miners.

Oh, what shall I do to celebrate the end of the war?