We went looking at private hotels today. Quite horrified by a decent one in Queen's Gate. Pail on stairs. Yet comfortable. But too horribly ugly and boarding-house-y. I had begun by putting cost at £40 a month. I then dropped it to £25, under Marguerite's influence. It must now go up to £30 or £35. Lunched at Harrods Stores; crammed; had to wait a minute for a table.
Home in petrole-ous omnibus.
This morning I walked 5 or 6 miles through Roehampton and Barnes. Impressed by the cleanliness, order and sober luxury of all the dwellings I saw.
I found most of the plot for a humorous novel; I hope to find the remaining part of the plot tomorrow.
Sharpes and Chapman here last night. I asked C. what Lane would say if I asked him to publish a book of poems. He instantly said: "He would say: 'Give me your next three novels and I'll publish your poems.' "
We all dined at Sharpe's on Monday. A musical evening, of which the features were Sharpe's interpretations of Ravel, and Cedric's imitation on his 'cello of a motor-bus starting in Putney High Street.
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