THE COLLECTED WORKS OF E. M. DELAFIELD (Illustrated Edition). E. M. Delafield

      (Sounds very final indeed, but really means training-camp near Salisbury.)

      Most of the other boys haven't yet Gone, but are anxious to Go, and expect to do so at any minute.

      Bill Chuff, who was in the last war, got himself taken at once and is said by his wife to be guarding the Power Station at Devonport. (Can only say, but do not of course do so, that Bill Chuff will have to alter his ways quite a lot if he is to be a success at the Power Station at Devonport. Should be interested to hear what Our Vicar, who has spent hours in spiritual wrestling with Bill Chuff in the past fifteen years, thinks of this appointment.)

      An aeroplane was seen over the mill, flying very low, three days ago, and had a foreign look about it—but it didn't do anything, so may have been Belgian. Cannot attempt to analyse the component parts of this statement and simply reply, Very Likely.

      Lady B. has sent up to say that she will employ any girl who has passed her First Aid Examination, in future Red Cross Hospital, and has met with hardly any response as a rumour has gone round that she intends to make everybody else scrub the floors and do the cooking while she manages all the nursing.

      Am quite prepared to believe this, and manage to convey as much without saying it in so many words.

      Gratified at finding myself viewed as a great authority on war situation, and having many enquiries addressed to me.

      What is going to happen about Finland, and do I think that Russia is playing a Double Game? (To this I reply, Triple, at the very least.)

      Can I perhaps say where the British Army is, exactly?

      If I can't, it doesn't matter, but it would be a Comfort to know whether it has really moved up to the Front yet, or not. The Ministry of Information doesn't tell one much, does it?

      No, it doesn't.

      Then what, in my opinion, is it for?

      To this, can only return an evasive reply.

      The village of Mandeville Fitzwarren, into which Mrs. Greenslade's Ivy married last year, hasn't had a single gas-mask issued to it yet, and is much disturbed, because this looks as though it was quite Out of the World, which isn't the case at all.

      Promise to lay the case of Mandeville Fitzwarren before Robert in his official A.R.P. capacity without delay.

      (M. F. is minute cluster of six cottages, a farm, inn and post-office, in very remote valley concealed in a labyrinth of tiny lanes and utterly invisible from anywhere at all, including the sky.)

      Final enquiry is whether Master Robin is nineteen yet, and when I reply that he isn't, everybody expresses satisfaction and hopes It'll be Over before he's finished his schooling.

      Am rather overcome and walk to the car, where all emotion is abruptly dispersed by astonishing sight of cat Thompson sitting inside it, looking out of the window.

      Evacuees Marigold and Margery, who are gazing at him with admiration, explain that he followed them all the way from home and they didn't know what else to do with him, so shut him into the car. Accordingly drive back with Thompson sitting on my knee and giving me sharp, severe scratch when Robert sounds horn at the corner.

      Peaceful afternoon ensues, write quantity of letters, and Aunt Blanche says it is a great relief not to have to read the newspapers, and immerses herself in Journals of Miss Weeton instead and says they are so restful.

      Tell her that I have read them all through three times already and find them entrancing, but not a bit restful. Doesn't Aunt Barton's behaviour drive her to a frenzy, and what about Brother Tom's?

      Aunt Blanche only replies, in thoroughly abstracted tones, that poor little Miss Pedder has just caught fire and is in a fearful blaze, and will I please not interrupt her till she sees what happens next.

      Can only leave Aunt Blanche to enjoy her own idea of restful literature.

      Finish letters—can do nothing about Cook owing to nationwide convention that employers do not Speak on a Sunday in any circumstance whatever—decide that this will be a good moment to examine my wardrobe—am much discouraged by the result—ask Robert if he would like a walk and he says No, not now, this is his one opportunity of going through his accounts.

      As Robert is leaning back in study armchair in front of the fire, with Blackwood's Magazine on his knees, I think it tactful to withdraw.

      Reflect on the number of times I have told myself that even one hour of leisure would enable me to mend arrears of shoulder-straps and stockings, wash gloves, and write long letter to Robert's mother in South of France, and then instantly retire to drawing-room fire and armchair opposite to Aunt Blanche's, and am only roused by ringing of gong for tea.

      Evening is spent in playing Spillikins with evacuees, both of whom are highly skilled performers, and leave Aunt Blanche and myself standing at the post.

      Eleven o'clock has struck and I am half-way to bed before I remember Mandeville Fitzwarren and go down again and lay before Robert eloquent exposition of the plight of its inhabitants.

      Robert not at all sympathetic—he has had several letters from Mandeville Fitzwarren, and has personally addressed a Meeting of its fourteen parishioners, and assured them that they have not been forgotten. In the meantime, he declares, nobody is, in the least likely to come and bomb them from the air, and they need not think it. It's all conceit.

      This closes the discussion.

      October 16th.—Very exhausting debate between myself and Cook.

      I tell her—pleasant tone, bright expression, firmness mingled with benevolence—that she has thoroughly earned a rest and that I should like her to take at least a week's holiday whilst I am at home. Wednesday, I should suggest, would be a good day for her to go.

      Cook immediately assumes an air of profound offence and says Oh no'm, that isn't at all necessary. She doesn't want any holiday.

      Yes, I say, she does. It will do her good.

      Cook shakes her head and gives superior smile, quite devoid of mirth.

      Yes, Cook, really.

      No'm. It's very kind of me, but she couldn't think of such a thing.

      But we could manage, I urge—at which Cook looks highly incredulous and rather resentful—and I should like her to have a holiday, and I feel sure she needs a holiday.

      Cook returns, unreasonably, that she is too tired for a holiday to do her any good. She wouldn't enjoy it.

      In another moment we are back at the stove motif again, and I am once more forced to hear of Cook's suspicion that something is wrong with it, that she thinks the whole range is going, if it hasn't actually gone, and of her extraordinary and unnatural activities, on her hands and knees, at half-past five in the morning.

      I tell Cook—not without defiance—that A Man will come and look at the range whilst she is away. She says a man won't be able to do nothing. The Sweep, last time he saw it, said he couldn't understand how it was still holding together. In his opinion it wouldn't take more than a touch to send the whole thing to pieces, it was in such a way.

      Sweep has evidently been very eloquent indeed, as Cook continues to quote him at immense length.

      (Note: Make enquiries as to whether any other Sweep lives within a ten-mile radius, and if so, employ him for the future.)

      Find myself edging nearer and nearer to the door, while at the same time continuing to look intelligently and responsively at Cook, but no break occurs in her discourse to enable me to disappear altogether.

      After what seems like hours, Cook pauses for a moment and I again reiterate my intention of sending her for a holiday, to which she again replies that this is not necessary, nor even possible. Should like to ask whether Cook has ever heard of Mr. Bultitude who said that Everything would go to rack and