E. Delafield - The Collected Works of E. M. Delafield (Illustrated Edition)

Later on, have an opportunity of enquiring into these phenomena, as P. P. takes me to see children. Do not like to ask much about them, for fear of becoming involved in very, very intricate questions concerning P.'s matrimonial extravagances.

Nurseries are entirely decorated in white, and furnished exactly like illustrated articles in Good Housekeeping , even to coloured frieze all round the walls. Express admiration, but am inwardly depressed, at contrast with extraordinarily inferior school-room at home. Hear myself agreeing quite firmly with P. P. that it is most important to Train the Eye from the very beginning--and try not to remember large screen covered with scraps from illustrated papers; extremely hideous Brussels carpet descended from dear Grandmamma, and still more hideous oil-painting of quite unidentified peasant carrying improbable-looking jar--all of which form habitual surroundings of Robin and Vicky.

P. P. calls children, and they appear, looking, if possible, even more expensive and hygienic than their nursery. Should be sorry to think that I pounce with satisfaction on the fact that all of them wear spectacles, and one a plate, but cannot quite escape suspicion that this is so. All have dark hair, perfectly straight, and am more doubtful than ever about P.'s auburn waves.

We all exchange handshakes, I say that I have a little boy and a little girl at home--which information children rightly receive with brassy indifference--Pamela shows me adjoining suite of night-nurseries, tiled bathroom and kitchen, and says how handy it is to have a nursery wing quite apart from the rest of the house, and I reply Yes indeed, as if I had always found it so, and say good-bye to the little Spectacles with relief.

Pamela, on the way downstairs, is gushing, and hopes that she is going to see a great deal of me, now that we are neighbours. Forty-one miles does not, in my opinion, constitute being neighbours, but I make appropriate response, and Pamela says that some day we must have a long, long talk. Cannot help hoping this means that she is going to tell me the story of Stevenson, Templer-Tate and Co.

( N.B. Singular and regrettable fact that I should not care twopence about the confidences of P. P. except for the fact that they are obviously bound to contain references to scandalous and deplorable occurrences, which would surely be better left in oblivion?)

Drive forty-one miles home again, thinking about a new cook--practically no ray of hope anywhere on horizon here--decision about Vicky's school, Mademoiselle's probable reactions to final announcement on the point, and problem in regard to furnishing of Doughty Street flat.

July 17th. --Am obliged to take high line with Robert and compel him to listen to me whilst I tell him about the flat. He eventually gives me his attention, and I pour out torrents of eloquence, which grow more and more feeble as I perceive their effect upon Robert. Finally he says, kindly but gloomily, that he does not know what can have possessed me--neither do I, by this time--but that he supposes I had to do something , and there is a good deal too much furniture here, so some of it can go to Doughty Street.

At this I revive, and we go into furniture in detail, and eventually discover that the only things we can possibly do without are large green glass vase from drawing-room, small maple-wood table with one leg missing, framed engraving of the Prince Consort from bathroom landing, and strip of carpet believed--without certainty--to be put away in attic. This necessitates complete readjustment of furniture question on entirely new basis. I become excited, and Robert says Well, it's my own money, after all, and Why not leave it alone for the present, and we can talk about it again later? Am obliged to conform to this last suggestion, as he follows it up by immediately leaving the room.

Write several letters to Registry Offices, and put advertisement in local Gazette , regarding cook. Advertisement takes much time and thought, owing to feeling that it is better to be honest and let them know the worst at once, and equally strong feeling that situation must be made to sound as attractive as possible. Finally put in "good outings" and leave out "oil lamps only" but revert to candour with "quiet country place" and "four in family".

Am struck, not for the first time, with absolutely unprecedented display of talent and industry shown by departing cook, who sends up hitherto undreamed-of triumphs of cookery, evidently determined to show us what we are losing.

July 19th. --Receive two replies to Gazette advertisement, one from illiterate person who hopes we do not want dinner in the night--( Query: Why should we?)--and another in superior, but unpleasant, handwriting demanding kitchen-maid, colossal wages and improbable concessions as to times off. Reason tells me to leave both unanswered; nevertheless find myself sending long and detailed replies and even--in case of superior scribe--suggesting interview.

Question of Vicky's school recrudesces, demanding and receiving definite decisions. Am confronted with the horrid necessity of breaking this to Mademoiselle. Decide to do so immediately after breakfast, but find myself inventing urgent errands in quite other parts of the house, which occupy me until Mademoiselle safely started for walk with Vicky.

( Query: Does not moral cowardice often lead to very marked degree of self-deception? Answer: Most undoubtedly yes.)

Decide to speak to Mademoiselle after lunch. At lunch, however, she seems depressed, and says that the weather lui Porte sur les nerfs , and I feel better perhaps leave it till after tea. Cannot decide if this is true consideration, or merely further cowardice. Weather gets steadily worse as day goes on, and is probably going to porter sur les nerfs of Mademoiselle worse than ever, but register cast-iron resolution not to let this interfere with speaking to her after Vicky has gone to bed.

Robin's Headmaster's wife writes that boys are all being sent home a week earlier, owing to case of jaundice, which is--she adds-- not catching. Can see neither sense nor logic in this, but am delighted at having Robin home almost at once. This satisfaction, most regrettably, quite unshared by Robert. Vicky, however, makes up for it by noisy and prolonged display of enthusiasm. Mademoiselle, as usual, is touched by this, exclaims Ah, quel bon petit coeur! and reduces me once more to despair at thought of the blow in store for her. Find myself desperately delaying Vicky's bed-time, in prolonging game of Ludo to quite inordinate lengths.

Just as good-night is being said by Vicky, I am informed that a lady is the back door, and would like to speak to me, please. The lady turns out to be in charge of battered perambulator, filled with apparently hundreds of green cardboard boxes, all--she alleges--containing garments knitted by herself. She offers to display them; I say No, thank you, not to-day, and she immediately does so. They all strike me as frightful in the extreme.

Painful monologue ensues, which includes statements about husband having been a Colonel in the Army, former visits to Court, and staff of ten indoor servants. Am entirely unable to believe any of it, but do not like to say so, or even to interrupt so much fluency. Much relieved when Robert appears, and gets rid of perambulator, boxes and all, apparently by power of the human eye alone, in something under three minutes.

(He admits, later, to having parted with half a crown at back gate, but this I think touching, and much to his credit.)