I saw her once to-day in the gardens, walking by herself.
I have told Max's secretary that I want to get to sea; to be here in Bruges and not to see her is more than I can bear.
I sail at dawn to-morrow. Shall I see her? No, it is best not.
A frightful noise over the New Year celebrations to-night. Champagne flowing like water in the Mess. I feel the year 1917 opens badly for me.
Weissman also went to sea again for a short trip in the Channel, and has not reported for five days. Perhaps he has despised the Dover Barrage once too often. If this is so, it is a great loss to the service: he was a man of iron resolution in underwater attack.
I feel I ought to despise Zoe, but I can't. I love her too much; after all, am I not perhaps encasing myself in the robe of a Pharisee?
She offered me all she had, save only the one thing I asked, without which I will take nothing. I cannot reconcile her behaviour with her character; why can't she trust me? why can't she be frank with me? I will not believe she is that sort.
I feel I cannot go out again without a sign--I may not return, and I will not leave her, perhaps for ever, with this bitterness between us.