4 April.
One day more to the end of the term. How nice it will be to be back, to start life again for a day or two. The holidays are disgustingly short, though, only three weeks and a bit.
We have just given our third and last performance of the marionette play. It has been a wild success and should, if possible, be repeated. But the light in the summer would be too strong and everyone leaves at the end of next summer, so I don’t suppose we shall have enough people to get one up next winter!
Oh, for to-morrow to go quickly.
Holidays: 10 April.
Back again to peace, even if it is cotton wool and stagnation, but very pleasant all the same. Am reading George Moore’s Ave, with considerable relish and amusement. He is so very witty.
My reports have come in and are uninteresting; no one very enthusiastic, which is not to be wondered at.
20 April.
“Polygamy is a matter of opinion, not of morality.” Montague Glass is undoubtedly the greatest comedian of letters. Potash and Perlmutter is superb.
At dinner to-night Mamma informed me in one of her rare pronouncements on myself, that I always kept people at arm’s length. It sounds an awful thing to write, but I seldom meet anyone who interests me more than myself: my own fault, I suppose.