ding me, stood stock still, threw back his head, and shouted
with laughter. I never heard more whole-hearted merriment. I had to
join in. Whether it was that he had never seen anyone with fair
hair before, or whether there is something particularly droll in my
appearance, I don't know, but he evidently found me the funniest thing
he had met with for a long time. It is generally Topsy who is the
centre of interest. They hustle one another to look at her and gurgle
with delight. Jean told me solemnly, "I have to leave her at home when
I go with Mummy to the villages. They won't listen about Jesus for
looking at Topsy."

Jean's great desire is to meet "someone white." Yesterday I saw a
horseman approaching in European riding kit and a topi. "Look, Jean,"
I said, "I believe that is an Englishman" but when he came up to us
and raised his topi with a flourish Jean said mournfully, "No, it's
nobody white," and I had to pick her up hurriedly in case she should
say something more to hurt the poor Eurasian.

When we come in from our walk it is tiffin-time. After that the
children are put to bed, and I sit in the verandah and write and rest.
Did I say rest? This is what goes on:

"O-liv-i-a!"

I go into the nursery, and Jean, very wide awake, demands a needle and
thread, as she wants to sew a dress for Topsy. I tie a piece of thread
into a large darning-needle and supply her with my handkerchief, which
she proceeds to sew into a tight ball. I return to my writing.

"Olivia!"

This time it is Robert.

"Olivia, if this bungalow fell into the tank would it splash out all
the water?"

"Of course it would."

"Then what would the water do when it fell back from the splash and
found the bungalow blocking up its tank?"

Unable to think of an answer, I tell him to be a good boy and not
disturb people when they are writing. Ronald begs for a piece of paper
and a pencil, and having got it, proceeds to write down everything
beginning with G. I once told Peter to do that, and his list when I
looked at it ran: "God--Gollywog--Gordon Highlanders."...

Immediately I resume my writing it begins again, "Olivia" in every
tone, peremptory, beseeching, coaxing--but like the deaf adder I stop
my ears and refuse to hear. I am using this opportunity to write my
great work on the Mutiny, and it isn't nearly so easy to write a book
as I thought. No matter how much I try, my sentences seem all to
stand up on end. I can't acquire any ease or g