We were a small party, or else the house was so big, and we all seemed rather English and talked low and there was a calm that was unlike New York. I found my host treated me rather like Lenin did, smilingly and lightly, as if I were not very serious. But he takes me seriously evidently, for he is arranging an exhibition for me at the Museum of the American Numesmatic Society. WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 9, 1921. I spent a quiet day, as it was my lecture afternoon. I suffer so beforehand that I am almost exhausted. My audience, it being the afternoon, was of a different type. There were more women and fewer Radicals. They were less light in hand and more serious. I find I take my mood from my audience, and the psychology of an audience seems to vary. Mr. Edwin Markham, the poet who wrote “The Man With the Hoe,” introduced me and sat by my side on the stage during the lecture. He has a head rather like Longfellow. Afterwards some of the audience came down to the reception room, Lopokova who was there told me I had done well, and embraced me quite emotionally. I was glad to get that opinion from her. People came and asked me all kinds of questions and one, a formidable looking woman in a leather coat, asked if I was in favor of the same methods prevailing here as in Moscow. I was very indignant and said she had no right to ask me such a direct political question, that it was unjustifiable. She apologized and melted away. Travers Jerome and his mother then rescued me and took me somewhere quickly to tea. It is a curious thing how people without imagination can waylay one both on one’s way in and on one’s way out from lecturing, trying to fix some social engagement. On the way in one is absorbed by the thought of what one is going to say. On the way out one is too weary to exert one’s mind in such a direction. Yet people are very kind. I don’t know if they love me or are interested in Russia. I should think neither. Mr. Liveright, my publisher, fetched me and took me to the Ritz where we dined with Mr. Pulitzer, Mr. and Mrs. Swope, and Mr. B. M. Baruch. Mr. Pulitzer looks much too young to be the owner of THE WORLD and has the face of a well bred Englishman. Mr. Baruch (whose name I mistook for Brooke) has white hair, fine features and stands 6 ft. 4. I gathered from the general conversation that I was talking to someone whom I should have heard of, and as I could think of no distinguished Brooke but Rupert Brooke the poet, I asked if he was related. And then Mr. Baruch rather reprovingly spelt his name for me. Instantly by a faint glimmer of memory “Wall Street” came to my mind, and I seemed to have heard in London that he was a friend of Winston. He was interesting and unprejudiced. Most of these brilliant men are unprejudiced about Russia when one talks to them individually. It is the same in England.