_August 30th_--The interest in the book has flagged lately--I could not think of a thing, so I proposed to Miss Sharp to have a holiday. She accepted the fortnight without enthusiasm. Now she is back and we have begun again--Still I have no _flair_--Why do I stick to it?--Just because I have said to the Duchesse that I _will_ finish it?----I have an uneasy feeling that I do not want to probe my real reason--I would like to lie even to this Journal. Lots of fellows have been upon the five days' leave lately, things are going better--they jolly one, and I like to see them, but after they go I feel more of a rotten beast than ever. The only times I forget are when Maurice brings the fluffies to dine with me--when they rush up to Paris from Deauville. We drink champagne--(they love to know how much it costs) and I feel gay as a boy--and then in the night I have once or twice reached out for my revolver. They have all gone back to Deauville now. Perhaps it is Miss Sharp who irritates me with her eternal diligence--What is her life--who are her family? I would like to know but I will not ask--I sit and think and think what to write about in my book. I have almost come to the end of grinding out facts about Walnut and ball fringe--and she sits taking it all down in short-hand, never raising her head, day after day--. Her hair is pretty--that silky sort of nut brown with an incipient wave in it--her head is set on most gracefully, I must admit, and the complexion is very pale and transparent--But what a firm mouth!--Not cold though--only firm. I have never seen her smile. The hands are well shaped really--awfully well shaped, if one watches them--How long would it take to get them white again I wonder? She has got good feet, too, thin like the hands--. How worn her clothes look--does she never have a new dress--? Yes Burton, I will see Madame de Clerté--. * * * * * Solonge de Clerté is a philosopher--she has her own aims--but I do not know them. "Writing a book, Nicholas?" There was the devil of a twinkle in her eye--"There is a poor boy wounded in the leg who would make a perfect secretary if you are not satisfied." I grew irritated--. "I am quite satisfied"--we heard the noise of the typing machine from beyond--these modern doors allow nothing to be unknown. "Young, is she?" Madame de Clerté asked turning her glance in that direction. "I don't know and don't care--she types well"--. "_Hein?_" She saw that I was becoming enraged.--My dinners are good and the war is not yet over--. "We shall all be terribly interested--yes--when we read the result--." "Probably"--. Then she told me of complications occurring about Coralie's husband. "Of an insanity to attempt the three at once" she sighed--. And now I can turn to my journal again--Good God--the last pages have all been about Miss Sharp--ridiculous, exasperating Miss Sharp! did I write ridiculous?--No--it is I who am ridiculous--I shall go for a drive--!