f some extraneous
circumstances came to my aid.

In the meanwhile she loves me, and everything draws me towards her.
To-day I asked myself, "If it is to be, why put it off?" I found
a ready answer: "Because I do not want to lose any of my present
sensations; the sudden thrills, the charm of the words unspoken, the
questioning glances, the expectations. I wish to spin out the romance
to the very end. I found fault with women that they preferred the
semblance of love to love itself, and now I am quite as anxious not to
lose any of its outward manifestations. But as one gets more advanced
in years one attaches greater importance to these things; and besides,
I am an Epicurean in my sensations."

After the above conversation with Aniela, we both recovered our
spirits. During evening I helped her in the cutting out of lampshades,
which gave me the opportunity to touch her hands and dress. I hindered
her with the work and she became as gay as a child, and in a child's
quick, plaintive voice called out, "Aunty, Leon is very naughty."

14 February.

Ill luck would have it that I accepted an invitation to attend a
meeting at Councillor S.'s, who always tries to bring together
representatives of all shades and opinions, and over a cup of tea and
a sandwich to bring about a mutual understanding. As a man almost
continually living abroad, I came to this meeting to find out what was
going on in the minds of my countrymen and listen to their reasonings.
The crush was very great, which made me feel uncomfortable, and at the
same time happened what usually happens at large gatherings. Those of
the same shade of opinion congregated in separate rooms to pay each
other compliments and so forth. I was made acquainted with various
councillors and representatives of the press. In other countries,
there is a considerable difference between writers and journalists.
The first is considered an artist and a thinker, the latter, a mere
paragraph-monger--I cannot find a better word. Here there is no such
distinction, and men of both occupations are known under the same
collective name as literary men. The greater part of them follow both
avocations, literature and journalism. Personally, they are more
refined than the journalists I met abroad. I do not like the daily
press, and consider it as one of the plagues sent down to torment
humanity. The swiftness with which the world becomes acquainted with
current events is equal to the superficial