hen I require it, which under the
circumstances, is not often.

Why do people write journals? Because human nature is filled with
egotism. There is nothing so interesting to oneself as oneself; and
journals cannot yawn in one's face, no matter how lengthy the expression
of one's feelings may be!

A clean white page is a sympathetic thing, waiting there to receive
one's impressions!

Suzette supped with me, here in my _appartement_ last night--When she
had gone I felt a beast. I had found her attractive on Wednesday, and
after an excellent lunch, and two Benedictines, I was able to persuade
myself that her tenderness and passion were real, and not the result of
some thousands of francs,--And then when she left I saw my face in the
glass without the patch over the socket, and a profound depression fell
upon me.

Is it because I am such a mixture that I am this rotten creature?--An
American grandmother, a French mother, and an English father.
Paris--Eton--Cannes--Continuous traveling. Some years of living and
enjoying a rich orphan's life.--The war--fighting--a zest hitherto
undreamed of--unconsciousness--agony--and then?--well now Paris again
for special treatment.

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 divorcee--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,
Engl