I was on 100 yesterday, but read it over
and condemned it.

_10 a.m._--I have worked up again to 97, but how? The deuce fly away
with literature, for the basest sport in creation. But it's got to come
straight! and if possible, so that I may finish _D. Balfour_ in time for
the same mail. What a getting upstairs! This is Flaubert out-done.
Belle, Graham, and Lloyd leave to-day on a malaga down the coast; to be
absent a week or so: this leaves Fanny, me, and ----, who seems a nice,
kindly fellow.

_June 2nd._--I am nearly dead with dyspepsia, over-smoking, and
unremunerative overwork. Last night, I went to bed by seven; woke up
again about ten for a minute to find myself light-headed and altogether
off my legs; went to sleep again, and woke this morning fairly fit. I
have crippled on to p. 101, but I haven't read it yet, so do not boast.
What kills me is the frame of mind of one of the characters; I cannot
get it through. Of course that does not interfere with my total
inability to write; so that yesterday I was a living half-hour upon a
single clause and have a gallery of variants that would surprise you.
And this sort of trouble (which I cannot avoid) unfortunately produces
nothing when done but alembication and the far-fetched. Well, read it
with mercy!

_8 a.m._--Going to bed. Have read it, and believe the chapter
practically done at last. But Lord! it has been a business.

_June 3rd_, 8.15.--The draft is finished, the end of Chapter XII. and
the tale, and I have only eight pages _wiederzuarbeiten_. This is just a
cry of joy in passing.

10.30.--Knocked out of time. Did 101 and 102. Alas, no more to-day, as I
have to go down town to a meeting. Just as well though, as my thumb is
about done up.

_Sunday, June 4th._--Now for a little snippet of my life. Yesterday,
12.30, in a heavenly day of sun and trade, I mounted my horse and set
off. A boy opens my gate for me. "Sleep and long life! A blessing on
your journey," says he. And I reply "Sleep, long life! A blessing on the
house!" Then on, down the lime lane, a rugged, narrow, winding way, that
seems almost as if it was leading you into Lyonesse, and you might see
the head and shoulders of a giant looking in. At the corner of the road
I meet the inspector of taxes, and hold a diplomatic interview with him;
he wants me to pay taxes on the new house; I am informed I should not
till next year; and we part, _re infecta_, he promising to bring me
decisions, I assurin