Raymond was genuine and the strange man was genuine. I was more pleased by his manner than by the truth in either of them. I held both their views. But wanted to impress both of them. Partly for the sake of the truth. Men are either-or, all the time. But what I liked best was peacocking out of the hall with both of them talking, one in each ear. * * * * * Strangeness of the seaside at Christmas time. Sunlit frost on the morning grass. Green garden in full sunlight. Blaze of blue sea and blue transparent sky. Blue and green and gold of summer, and warmth in the tingling air. All the things of an old-fashioned Christmas except religion. Deliberate Christmassing without belief. And she came to midday dinner in an old woollen tam held in place by a grubby motor-veil tied under her chin. “She gets _one_ good, annihilating dress. Devastates about in it. On occasions. For the rest of the time she allows her things ... to accumulate atmosphere.” He thought her a bit of a charlatan. “No end of a rogue really. But when she smiles that _brown_ smile—she’s a gipsy you know, a certain amount of grime sets her off—one would do _anything_ for her.” He’s always complaining that women don’t do anything, and when they do, and make others do, he’s at once ready with some belittling explanation. And I hated them both. Was surly behind politeness till she had gone. When at once I forgot she was still in the world. _There’s_ stupidity. Enough to exclude from the élite of all worlds. Yet Selina Holland is afraid of losing me. * * * * * Selina Holland has no doubt that death will transfer her into the presence of God. Yet she wants, for the time that remains to her, wide circumstances, ease. Is willing, for the sake of the ease and space she sees so clearly, to go to the ends of the earth. “_Wide_ sky; unstinted air; _room_ to move” exactly in the voice she uses for “_Good_ Bermaline.” A religious woman, living on prayer; blossoming, in middle age, into splendid health on the power of prayer and teaspoonsful of Listerine. Ready to give up her work amongst the poor and systematically seek wealth and comfort. Perhaps in the end she will actually go; to California. Make her way. Master hotel-keeping as she has mastered hygiene and midwifery, and confectionery. Leave London as coolly as years ago she came. And contrive her transference just as she had contrived this holiday to Edinburgh. Ingeniously. Horrible ingenuity of genteel poverty: Two coats and skirts, one on the top of the other, and a little handbag. By the midnight train.