Dining out

Saturday, April 8th., Les Sablons,

Interior of Noel Peters, Passage des Princes

Mrs. Devereux dined with me at Noel and Peters. For the first time in the history of our acquaintance she was prompt. At least not prompt but in front of time. Women are never exact. I was exact and so she had to wait. I must admit that I like to be seen out with her. Her higher social status embellishes her magnetism for me, but she is in any case an attractive woman. I told her recently that it was singular that I had never got up a passion for her. She also supposed it was and said, "because in some ways, I suppose, I must be the most attractive woman you have ever known in your life." Quite a claim, but she may be right.
For more on Mrs. Devereux see 'Back to work'

I have been 'driven' this week, and have not been able either to practise the piano much, or to keep this journal. On Tuesday I got all my ideas together for the third instalment of the serial. But I dined with Misses Thomasson and Hegersheimer in the evening, and Miss Thomasson spent an hour in her studio, lighted by a single small lamp, in making a mayonnaise. Consequently the dinner was 75 minutes late, though excellent. The mayonnaise succeeded admirably. I ate too much of it, and what with this and the dinner being late, I had a bilious attack the next day, the first for about a year.
For more on Miss Thomasson see 'Ideas on women'

I have had our French play typewritten. The typist brought it herself this morning. She told me, incidentally, that French theatrical managers were very conservative and had a prejudice against typewriting. As a matter of fact they are not in the least conservative. They are routinier, which is not the same thing.

Additionally for April 8th., see 'Playing hard to get'

Beaverbrook has invited us for the weekend. I knew that if I kept quiet the chap would make overtures to me. He told me through Blumenfield, the Editor of the Express, that I had quite deserted him. I sent him a very stiff message through the same intermediary. These millionaires always think that everyone is the same as the over-eager crowd around them. But I find Max very congenial. He has the faults of his qualities - and of his money. And I will need him soon for my next novel. He will be indispensable to me for it. All the same, of course, I refused his invitation. I will see him in London one day. He is very touchy. It will do him good for me to treat him as just anybody. After all, why shouldn't I?