I, too, am sick and weary of the gossip-mongers. Why should one put up with them. And what have they done that they should dare puff themselves up so. It's ridiculous. I often feel you are far too tolerant of them. The absurdity, the utter absurdity. What in God's name have they ever given birth to?

I confess that at heart I hate them because I feel they are the enemies of Art—of real true Art. The snigger is a very awful thing when one is young and the sneer can nearly kill. They profess to live by feeling—but why then do they never give a sign of it—and why do they do their very best to ridicule feeling in others? It is all poisonous.

Such a strange day,—a purplish sky—the rain falling, falling—as one imagines the rain falls in China—and through it the thrum-thrum-tinkle-tinkle of a little string band. For Mrs. D. is giving a Garding Party…. I have such a funny vision of the party—the vicar's straw hat, so wet and sticky—Mr. D. blowing his nose in the same charmingly intimate way off the stage as he does on— page 236 and Mrs. flashing her teeth and her ten finger nails at Society. I saw these remarkable hands hovering over and positively shooting beams of light on to a box of plover's eggs at the fishmongers, the other day, while she cried for the pit, gallery, porter at the door and attendant in the Ladies Toilet to hear: “Are they raipe, Fishmonger? Are you sure they are raipe?”

What a world, what a world! The cook has given notice. How blessed! It is dreadful enough to be without servants but to be with them—is far more dreadful. I cannot forget the dishonest hateful old creature down in the kitchen. Now she will go and I shall throw her bits to the dustman and fumigate her room and start fair again.

I feel so much more sensitive to everything than I used to be—to people good or bad, to ugliness or beautiful things. Nowadays when I catch a glimpse of Beauty—I weep—yes, really weep. It is too much to be borne—and if I feel wickedness—it hurts so unbearably that I get really ill. It is dreadful to be so exposed—but what can one do?