There is a coolness between Alice and me since her recent stupidity — she said she couldn't come to dinner, so I told her not to visit so much; I shan't be inviting her again so readily. We meet at exhibitions and it is all perfectly civil and perfectly meaningless. I had something to say to her, but it was too hot, and I was too tired, and it wasn't worth the effort. The moonlit garden, the sky, the stars — all of it recalled a Cazin I had seen. Only art matters, in the end. I feel quite peaceful about not leaving yet; there is time to finish the children, and then a fisherman, a boy reading on a bench, thirty sunsets. Spring does not push me toward sentiment. It makes me want to be childish — to roll in the grass and demand that the world be beautiful immediately.