Why do I write this down? For posterity to take up the threads
correctly?--Why?

From some architectural sense in me which must make a beginning, even of
a journal, for my eyes alone, start upon a solid basis?

I know not--and care not.

* * * * *

Three charming creatures are coming to have tea with me to-day. They had
heard of my loneliness and my savageness from Maurice--They burn to give
me their sympathy--and have tea with plenty of sugar in it--and
chocolate cake.

I used to wonder in my salad days what the brains of women were made
of--when they have brains!--The cleverest of them are generally devoid
of a logical sense, and they seldom understand the relative value of
things, but they make the charm of life, for one reason or another.

When I have seen these three I will dissect them. A divorcée--a war
widow of two years--and the third with a husband fighting.

All, Maurice assures me, ready for anything, and highly attractive. It
will do me a great deal of good, he protests. We shall see.

Night. They came, with Maurice and Alwood Chester, of the American Red
Cross. They gave little shrill screams of admiration for the room.

"Quel endroit delicieux!--What boiserie! English?--Yes, of course,
English dix-septième, one could see--What silver!--and cleaned--And
everything of a chic!--And the hermit so séduisant with his air
maussade!--Hein."