I am now in the night train for Göteborg. Before I left I went to tea with the children at the Palace. The Crown Prince unfortunately was in Rome. The children seemed lonely, but well. Princess Ingred looked sad, big-eyed and rather pale. The baby, Johnny, is adorable. He is a thing so sweet to woman, so much to be appreciated. One feels the maternal spirit-arms round him. I also went to see the Comptroller of the Queen’s household, an artist and an old friend of many years. Here the impression I received of prejudice against my Russian friends was overwhelming, but I suppose, in Court circles, this is to be expected. NOVEMBER 18TH. _Goteborg to Newcastle._ More delays, owing to storms. Always there are delays on this journey, do what one will it is impossible to hurry. In pre-war days it took two days to come from Russia. Now it takes two weeks. NOVEMBER 23RD. _London._ We arrived at Newcastle at midnight on the 19th. Steaming up the Tyne at night is wonderful, all the arc lights throwing into relief great machinery and construction. The activity and work looked colossal. How can Russia fight this iron industrialism? As soon as we had glided alongside the quay, and I had touched English soil once more, I was not left in doubt one moment as to the truth of Kameneff’s premonitions. While the coffins were being opened with chisel and hammer at the Custom House, reporters, who declared they had come from London and had been waiting two days, clamoured for information. The head official of the Customs was very abrupt in his manner and subjected all my luggage to a most ruthless search. I did not declare the identity of my heads, but from the unpleasant official attitude I guessed that they were already known. One official began examining a large album of photographs. I said to him: “That isn’t contraband, they are photographs of my work; yes, that one is Mr. Churchill, if it interests you, you may look at it.” He nearly flung it down. “I’ve no scent and no tobacco, one doesn’t get those things in Russia,” I said. Unfortunately at that minute he came upon a packet of Soviet cigarettes, my last ration that I had carefully kept and brought back to England. But he said: “That is not what we are looking for.” Whatever he was looking for he didn’t find.