July 1921

I finished Mr. and Mrs. Dove yesterday. I am. not altogether pleased with it. It's a little bit made up. It's not inevitable. I mean to imply that those two may not be happy together — that that is the kind of reason for which a young girl marries. But have I done so? I don't think so. Besides, it's not strong enough. I want to be nearer — far, far nearer than that. I want to use all my force even when I am taking a fine line. And I have a sneaking notion that I have, at the end, used the Doves unwarrantably. Tu sais ce que je veux dire. I used them to round off something — didn't I? Is that quite my game? No, it's not. It's not quite the kind of truth I'm after. Now for Susan- nah. All must be deeply felt. But what is one to do, with this wretched cat and mouse act? There's my difficulty! I must try to write this afternoon instead. There is no reason why I shouldn't ! No reason, except the after-effects of pain on a weakened organism.

Montana. One thing I am determined upon. And that is to leave no sign. There was a time — it is not so long ago — when I should have written all that has happened since I left France. But now I deliber- ately choose to tell no living soul. I keep silence as Mother kept silence. And though there are moments when the old habit ' tempts ' me and I may even get so far as to write a page, they are only moments, and each day they are easier to conquer. Chalet des Sapins, Montana. Just as now I say scarcely a word about my treacherous heart. If it's going to stop, rt is going to stop, and there's an end of it. But I have been in this little house for nearly two days now, and it has not once quietened down. What dread to live in! But what's the use of saying aught? No, my soul, be quiet. . . .