I went to Paris yesterday morning at 7 o'clock. Bad weather. It being Monday morning the train was crowded. I got to the Rue d'Aumale on foot and by omnibus. And in the omnibus I noticed that two of the three horses had sore feet.
The flat was as I expected but less dirty. I changed there into a winter suit.
Lunch at the Davray's (see 'Rumours of War' August 21st.) in their luminous new flat in the narrow Rue Servandoni. Victor Tissot was of the party. Editor of Hachette's "Almanac", of "Mon Dimanche", etc.
When I left it was fine. I walked along the Rue de Rivoli, and saw my books on sale, then took the Metro. to the Rue Hamelin for tea. Roy Devereux, just returned from Italy, was unwell and gloomy but resigned.
She gave me Elinor Glyn's "Three Weeks" to read, as she wanted my opinion.
She said it was vulgar, but she liked it. I read it in the train back. Naive and worthless, utterly. Its naughtiness, which has caused such extraordinary protests in England, is merely childish in its imitative conventionality of viciousness. A rechauffe of "Ouida".
Here is a rather amusing little doggerel: