To-night, with Miss Holland away, there is a double stillness. Perhaps I woke because she is away? For some _reason_, I woke. Something to say itself. And all these thoughts, bringing back the joy of the little room anew, are getting in the way. Idling along, going round and round. Me, gossiping with myself. And all the time something is waiting. Just at hand. Behind the things in my mind. And now, with me more awake here came the remains of yesterday. Crowding in to be looked at. Taking me back to stand and look again to find out what remains; what really meant something to me, if I could find out what it meant.... Strangeness of London on Bank Holiday. Its underside turned uppermost and spread over the whole surface. Daily London grown invisible, incredible. Never to come back. I’m glad I’ve spent one Bank Holiday in London. Seen and heard its reality. I’m glad it’s over. It’s like being separated from a lover. The blank feeling, at the end of the afternoon, that it is forever. The certainty that this wild tumult of people is the reality and the rest a sham. I almost feared to look at them lest they should see me wondering _why_ they all go back. Why they don’t know their power and end the system that holds them. I fear them. And to-morrow, with my lover back again, I shall feel more glad of that than sorry at the thought of all these people who keep London what it is to me, gagged again, and chained. Taken out of my sight. Toiling, out of my sight. Mean. Fear of losing small comforts and accustomed dreams. Like a timid elderly man of fixed habits settling comfortably in the autumn into his usual chair at the club. The peacefully noisy streets. Kept clean. Unconsciousness in the lulling song of the traffic. Why should I wander in bliss while they toil in grime and darkness?