A limerick

Saturday, February 6th., Hotel d'Italie, Menton.

Yesterday being wet I went over to Monte Carlo, and lost money, and was depressed by that and the weather, and more particularly by my lack of sense in playing with insufficient capital. 

Early this morning I composed a limerick on that infernal and un-vanquishable bore, Mrs. Miller:

There was an old woman named Miller
Whose acquaintances wanted to kill her
When they put her in ice
She sniggered, "How nice!"
For nothing could possibly chill her.

I sent it to Eden Phillpotts by special messenger.

I wrote to the Wells's today as I would like them to come to see me in Paris. I said that the play I an writing with Phillpotts will be finished within the next few days, and I do not expect to stay here after the end of next week as my mother is disconcertingly ill in England. I hear they have another child. 

I am now writing a humorous novel - I don't know why except that I wanted to. There was a humorous story of mine called "His Worship the Goosedriver" in the January Windsor. Any man who says it is not humorous is a fool & not a gentleman. When I have finished the current novel I have four others waiting their turn. I have instructed them to form a queue and wait quietly!

Additionally for February 6th., see'An impressive personality'

At another table there was a solitary old woman, fat and ugly and distinguished. I cried aloud at the sight of her entrance - she was so queer and so impressive. Afterwards in the lounge she had five men, not all old, in tow. She dominated them, talked like a man and laughed loudly, also like a man. We learned she was from Naples, and an author. I didn't catch the name clearly. Anyhow I had never heard it before. Not often      do you see such an impressive personality.