I happened to see Conrad and Hueffer's "Romance" at Frank's at lunch today, and I took it to read. I read about 20 pp. after lunch before the gas stove in the bedroom, but I doubt if I shall get much further in it.
Also I doubt if I shall read much more of J.S. Mill's "Autobiography" here. I cannot read in Burslem. All I can do is go about and take notes. My mind is in a whirl all the time. I have only been here 5 days, and yet all Paris and Avon seems years off; I scarcely ever even think of these places and my life there. Sometimes by accident I speak to myself or one of the children in French.
Yesterday I got back from Manchester for lunch. Then a long yarn at Dawson's, recounting the glories of the Manchester Guardian. Yesterday, in Manchester to 'look over' the newspaper, was one of the most agreeable days I have ever spent in my life. The fact is that this sort of thing is the real reward for having written a few decent books.
Maud came, and talked opera rehearsals from the point of view of a minor principle. Then I sent for Russell and he came at 9.30. Frank and his crowd called at 11.30, and we all went to Frank's. I came home at 12.50 and slept very dreamlessly till 7. The sanatogen cure, which I began on Wednesday, is already working.