"Oh! you never told me about the Nightjar," she cried outraged.
"No: it's a difficult question put in for candidates taking honours."
Then we rambled on into Tomfoolery. "Describe the call-note of a motor omnibus." "Why does the chicken cross the road?" and "What's that?"—when a railway engine whistled in the distance.
Measure by this our happiness!
June 4.
At a quarter past eight, this morning, the horse and trap were awaiting me outside, and bidding her "Goodbye" I got in and drove off—she riding on the step down so far, as the gate. Then we waved till we were out of sight. Back in London by 10 a.m. She makes slow progress, poor dear—her nerves are still very much of a jangle. But I am better, my heart is less wobbly.
June 5.
R—— cannot make me out. He says one day I complain bitterly at not receiving a Portuguese sonnet once a week, and the next all is well and Love reigneth. "Verily a Sphinx."
June 7.
Spent the afternoon at the Royal Army Medical College in consultation with the Professor of Hygiene. Amid all the paraphernalia of research, even when discussing a serious problem with a serious Major, I could not take myself seriously. I am incurably trivial and always feel myself an irresponsible youth, wondering and futile, among owlish grown-ups.