I reached my study and collapsed into a chair. What a day! But little by little, shelf upon shelf, I became aware of the books I had not seen for a whole month: Lamb, my Elizabethans, a row of Stevenson. I did not want to read; it was enough to feast one's eyes on their backs, to take down a volume and handle it my old green-jacketed Browning, for instance. And the small red Merediths all needed rearranging.
A little later I turned round to see Miriam standing in the doorway. Remorse seized me; I put an arm about her, with—"Tired, old thing?"
She looked down at my books and, half-smiling, she looked up again.
"He's quite good now he's got his toys," she said, and kissed me.
VERY PERSONAL.
Just to see what it looks like with my name in it, I have been making a diary of my doings (some real, some imaginary) in the approved language of the Society and Personal column.
I am Mr. James Milfly. This is how it looks:—
"Yesterday was the fortieth birthday of Mr. James Milfly. He passed it quietly at the office and at home. No congratulatory messages were received and no replies will be sent."