Tuesday, February 15th., Fulham Park Gardens, London.
The preoccupation of moving to a new house is now almost over, and after three days of incessant manual work, arranging books, clothes, furniture and pictures, I have time to recognise that I am a householder for the first time. I find myself wandering without aim through the house, staring at finished rooms, and especially at the terra-cotta effects of my new study, with a vague satisfaction. But stronger, more insistent than this satisfaction, is the feeling of graver and more complicated responsibilities, and a sort of anxiety for the future. I feel as if I am just becoming adult, and I am not sure that I like it.
And I wonder, at the age of thirty whether the great game is worth the candle. I return with regretful fancy to the time when, with lighter cares and the highest hopes that ignorance could induce, I lived in Cowley Street, and in Raphael Street, on about 15s. a week. And was happy.
Tonight I have set to work on a long criticism of George Moore.
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