23 May 1938 – 29 May 1938

It’s odd to be working at half cock after all those months of high pressure. The result is half an hour every day to write here. Roger I’m retyping: and shall then sketch Walpole. I have just been signing in bright green ink those circulars. But I will not expatiate on the dreariness of doing things one ought to do. A letter, grateful, from Bruce Richmond, ending my 30 years connection with him—the Lit Sup. How pleased I used to be when L. called me “You’re wanted by the Major Journal!” and I ran down to the telephone to take my almost weekly orders at Hogarth House! I learnt a lot of my craft writing for him: how to compress; how to enliven; and also was made to read with a pen and notebook, seriously. I am now waiting for today week—when that’s over, my swell will subside. And can’t I prophesy? On the whole I shall get more pain than pleasure; I shall mind the sneers more than I shall enjoy Lady Rhondda’s enthusiasm. There’ll be many sneers—some very angry letters. Some silences. And then— three weeks yesterday—we shall be off. And by July 7 th when we come back— or sooner, for we dread too many hotels—it will be over, almost entirely; and then for two years I think I shall publish nothing, save American articles. And this week of waiting is the worst, and it’s not very bad—nothing in the least comparable to the horror of The Years: (that deadened into indifference, so sure was I of failure).