Krassin offered me a third sitting, and came again at 5.0 and stayed till after 7.0. War is averted, and he assures me that Kameneff under no excuse can possibly leave for Russia for a fortnight. I did not sleep much, waking up with the exclamation “Partons! Partons!” for if we do not get away for a fortnight, I shall have to keep my engagement on September 10th at Oxford with the Birkenheads to do F. E., and then I shall not get to Russia before my exhibition. I worked hard, and Krassin’s head is finished. I think it good. Sydney[2] came to see me after dinner, and we talked fantastically about Russia, and what it might or might not lead to. He is terribly interested. AUGUST 27TH. Kameneff came at 11.0 to give me a last sitting. He was in a much happier frame of mind, chuckling over Tchicherin’s reply to Lloyd George, which is an impudent bit of propaganda work, and _all_ the papers _have_ to publish it because it is official. I awakened this morning with an excited and tired feeling, my hands trembling, which I have never known before. Kameneff arrived in much the same condition. He talked politics and got excited and worked up and produced the quizzical frown that I wanted. I worked well, and absolutely changed the whole personality of his bust, which I think he liked. He promised, incidentally, not to wait here two weeks, but says that he will start _not later_ than next Friday. I wonder if he keeps his promises. Peter[3] turned up with a girl, which disturbed the sitting and I felt more and more hectic, what with the difficulties and the battle of it, and knowing that it was the last sitting, and feeling dead beat, and having finally to stop for lunch. We lunched with Sydney Cooke at Claridges’. I introduced them to each other, and we are going to stay with Sydney at his house in the Isle of Wight, for the week-end. Like all good foreigners, Kameneff expressed a desire, some days ago, to see the Isle of Wight. So we arranged to go--I [Illustration: BUST OF KAMENEFF. _p. 24._] could not therefore go to my beloved Dick,[4] but I sent him a crocodile by Peter, to compensate for my absence. Dined with Aunt Jennie,[5] she has laryngitis, and looked very ill. She asked me what new work I was engaged on, but I took good care not to mention either Russians or Russia. In the course of conversation, she told me that I was being criticised as having too much freedom. I chuckled over this, as I visualised to myself the great band of people who grudge one that freedom, because they have not got it, and because they know that freedom counts above rubies. I said to Aunt Jennie, “And how is that grave condition of things, that dangerous “Liberty” going to be rectified? I am a widow, and earn my living, how is it to be otherwise ordered?”