1 May 1922 – 7 May 1922

Oh, what will this beloved month bring?

Paris. I must begin writing for Clement Shorter to-day 12 " spasms " of 2,000 words each. I thought of the Burnells, but no, I don't think so. Much better, the Sheridans, the three girls and the brother and the Father and Mother and so on, ending with a long description of Meg's wedding to Keith Fenwick. Well, there's the first flown out of the nest. The sisters Bead, who come to stay. The white sheet on the floor when the wedding dress is tried on. Yes, I've got the details all right. But the point is — Where shall I begin? One certainly wants to dash. Meg was playing. I don't think I ought to begin with that. It seems to me the mother's coming home ought to be the first chapter. The other can come later. And in that playing chapter what I want to stress chiefly is : Which is the real life — that or this ? — late afternoon, these thoughts — the garden — the beauty — how all things pass — and how the end seems to come so soon. And then again there is the darling bird — I've always loved birds — Where is the little chap? . . . What is it that stirs one so ? What is this seeking — so joyful — ah, so gentle! And there seems to be a moment when all is to be discovered. Yes, that's the feeling. . . . The queer thing is I only remember how much I have forgotten when I hear that piano. The garden of the Casino, the blue pansies. But oh, how am I going to write this story ?