the book-boxes on the river walls. It was a dull grey day, with a certain amount of wind, north-east wind I thought: altogether quite like a half-bred London day in early March, before Boreas has grown boisterous.
I lit upon an ill-used copy of a book by an English writer whose name I had heard spoken (evilly spoken) of in my later London days. I was in the humour for buying the book of such a writer, so I bought it and came home with it and straightway began to read it. The subject was an author whom I had been of late accustomed to read both rather frequently and rather carefully. I was struck by the number of my own thoughts that I found. Then there began to creep over me the sense that I had done nothing yet, written nothing yet, that is: a displeasing enough sense when coupled with another—that I never should do anything, write anything; anything, that is, worth the doing or reading. I envied this man who wrote with such assurance of work done.—About which point Rosy came in from her afternoon walk and we had tea.
It often happened that I was silent at meals and she content to let me so, but this evening, apparently because she saw that I particularly did not care to talk, she kept on asking me questions and chattering ceaselessly. For some time my sense of duty kept successful guard over my patience and I answered her quietly; but at last I sent my sense of duty packing and began to answer her rather irritably: then, gradually worked into an aggrieved state by her nervous babblement, at last kept a frowning silence. She was defiant: went on gibbering and laughing with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, and at last proceeded to tease me. I was not in a humour to be teased. I said so. She was excited now and not to be stopped, despite that Marie (the maid) was in the room clearing away the things for dessert. I kept my frowning silence till Marie was gone, and then said, as playfully as I could, that I was rather tired of hearing her little tongue wagging and wished it would stop still for a while. Then came an indignant flare up, to which I made no answer, only looking at the grapes I was eating and my plate: then a second indignant flare
