I am writing this down because Jo says I must—dear, beautiful Jo, with the great grey eyes and the maddening mouth. I tell her it is ridiculous—that in a short month the miracle will have sunk to a coincidence, the marvel to a curiosity. But she will have none of it: and, since she is leaning over my shoulder and has set her blessed cheek against mine, for what the business is worth down it shall go. Last night we dined with the Meurices. Not of choice, but we agreed it was politic. A refusal might have been thought bilious. It is hard to see how, but it might. After all, I have been perfectly frank about my resignation. Now that I am married, I cannot stay on if I am not to be paid two-thirds of what I can earn elsewhere. And ‘The Office’ has been equally frank and, while expressing its deepest regret, has said that fifteen hundred for a spy is as much as it may afford. However, the Meurices being, so to speak, brass hats, might have misconstrued our refusal. So we went. We did not enjoy it. I cannot keep pace with these diplomats. No doubt they’re good at their job, and all their ice-and-brandy ways are probably part of the game. But I am a regimental officer and I am not at ease hobnobbing with the gilded staff. I don’t suppose they’ld ’ve been at their ease drinking with the shunters at Carlsruhe. . . . But there you are. _Chacun à son goût._ Well, after dinner a girl—one Roach—was induced to tell our fortunes by dealing cards from a pack. ‘Induced’ is misleading. Lady Meurice said, “Sarah, you’ve had a good dinner: now tell us some lies.” And Sarah replied, “’And me the seaweed, Lulu, and I’ll tell you where Arthur wore the dog-bite.” The next minute she was off. I’ve heard some junk in my time . . . Presently my turn came, and I took my seat at the table and shuffled the pack. Only pausing to take my cigarette from my mouth, use it to light her own and then replace it between my lips, Miss Roach picked up the cards and began the rites of prophecy. What first she said I forget, but it was thin enough stuff. As a matter of fact, she seemed puzzled: something—some combination, she said, kept turning up. Finally she dropped the cards and took hold of my hand, holding it flat on the table, palm up, and blinking at it through the smoke of her cigarette. “You’re on the eve of meeting someone,” she said: “someone who’ll influence your life to an amazing extent. They’ll affect your outlook more violently than anything else in your life. They’ll alter all your plans. The queer thing is they’ll do it indirectly. You’ll hardly see them at all.” “Will they do me good or harm?” “I can’t say. But, whichever it is, they’ll do it through somebody else. It’s a terrific influence.” “In fact, I shall be swept off my feet?” She frowned. “Not exactly. Your existence will be changed. What’s so remarkable is that you retaliate. You’re going to influence their life even more strongly still. Only, your influence will be direct and—and concrete.”